Habits
by CurbItKirby
Summary: -Sequel to Me and Mr. Wolf- After Peter's triumphant return from the grave, he and Marcy try to sort out their relationship now that he's no longer an Alpha, and she's no longer a part of the Hale pack. Peter/OFC (Formerly called Flawed Design)
1. Chapter 1

After Peter died, Marcy took some time to herself.

She spent her Christmas vacation sobbing into her mattress, choking on the scent he left behind and trying to rid her apartment of any trace of him. She gave the apartment a thorough cleaning. She burned her sheets and anything that held a trace of him, from the clothes he had ripped off her that still reeked of their mingled sex to one of the towels he had used during an overnight visit. She scrubbed the floor and steam cleaned the carpets.

The couch was donated to charity.

The young woman knew she was going overboard, that she was letting the dead dictate her life and it sickened her, but not as much as the nightmares or the constant ache in her chest or the complete and utter lack of interest in anything around her. For the first time in her life she understood what it was like to pass through life as a ghost and it scared the hell out of her. Worse yet, it wasn't enough to snap her out of it.

It was a week before Derek came looking for her. A teenager trailed behind him, curly haired and blue eyed and eager to please, but Marcy shut them out. She arched a brow from behind the door, the thick chain lock still in place. A frown pulled at her lips as she asked bluntly, "What do you want?"

"Open the door," The new Alpha demanded with a twisted smile. "It's time we have a pack meeting."

"I'm not a part of your pack," She wasn't about to join another pack. Packs were nothing but trouble- and there was no loyalty to be found in Derek Hale, at least none that she had seen. With a snarl, she snapped at him, "I'll never be part of your pack, Hale. Now get out of here before I call the cops."

The younger man rolled his eyes, his hand shooting out to catch the door as she went to close it. "Marcy. Please. Be rational."

A growl escaped her throat. "Let go of the door, Derek."

"You'll never make it as an Omega," He teased, ignoring the way the boy behind him shifted, "No one ever does."

"I'll take my chances." Marcy bared her teeth at him through the opening, her claws coming out to grip the frame as her eyes flashed, "Now let go or I'll rip your little friend to pieces and leave him for you to find like Peter did your sister."

Derek's eyes flashed at her, an ominous red as the boy behind him startled. The Hale man leaned forward, "Open the door and say that to my face."

A wicked smile crossed her lips, but she did as she was told. The woman opened the door and stepped into the hall, shutting it tightly behind her all while glaring spitefully into the Alpha's eyes. "You're a sheep in wolf's clothing, Derek. I have a better chance by myself than I do with you."

He smirked at her, "You think so? What do you know about being in a pack? A real pack? I can guarantee whatever fucked up little affinity you had with Peter-"

"Isn't any of your business," Marcy finished for him with a mockingly sweet smile. She cocked her hip and leaned back against the door, her gaze dropping to her nails as she spoke, "Moving on."

"You really think you can handle being an Omega?"

The boy stepped forward now, anxiety rolling off him in waves as he all but whispered, "Derek, she said no-"

"Shut up, Isaac."

"You know for all his many, many flaws I don't think Peter ever told me to shut up," The brunette blinked, a sarcastically puzzled expression on her soft features as she crossed arms, "_Huh_."

Derek rolled his hazel eyes in annoyance, "Marcy. Don't be stupid."

"Never called me _stupid_ either."

"Omegas don't survive very long on their own," He went on, ignoring her quip and moving to loom over her. His expression serious and tight, hers bold and hard as he finished, "They're easy prey for hunters and rival packs. Females especially. It's not safe for you to be on your own."

The woman laughed in his face. Told him if he was the Alpha, she would have better luck on her own and wished the curly haired boy the best of luck with his inept leader before she retreated into her apartment.

It was that afternoon Marcy decided to make some changes. If she was going to be an Omega, by choice and not exile, she was going to have to find a way to defend herself. The first thing she did was line the bottom of her door with mountain ash and attach two latches on either side to create a barrier- no werewolves allowed in without her say so. She began experiment with Wolfsbane in its different forms, began keeping concentrated doses on her person at all times.

It was also that day she resolved to get over Peter Hale. She had mourned him long enough. Marcy went out every night. She took more than her fair share of men to bed until her mattress no longer smelled like her Alpha and sobbed in to her pillow when she realized his last mark on her life was gone. The woman let her heart ache, but didn't let it stop her.

It became the norm, the pang in her chest, the hollow coldness in her bones as she went about her day. Marcy took some time off from school and went on the road with her dad and his friends.

"Mars!" Her brother had screamed, jumping and waving as she left her apartment building. His lean frame a bundle of nerves as he waved his arms excitedly, looking more six than twenty.

Marcy smiled as she hiked her duffle bag up further on her shoulder. Her wheelie suitcase bumped over the stairs behind her. Logan beamed and took it from her, all but tossing it into the red Plymouth's trunk as Clayton looked on fondly. The siblings hugged tightly, but briefly before the elderly man cleared his throat and motioned for them to get in.

"I can't believe your back!" Logan cackled, shaking his big sister's shoulders from the back seat.

Marcy and Clayton shared a smirk. "Where was I before?" The woman asked.

"Dad is so excited, it's not even funny. And Gina? Do you know how long she's been waiting to see your sorry ass?"

"I'm sure your little girlfriend will tire of me quickly."

"Mars," The driver gave her an affectionate punch on the shoulder, "don't be such a suck. You can always fly your little boyfriend out if you get lonely."

When her expression turned somber, the men shared a look. Logan's touch became lighter, more careful as he asked, "Marce? What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Did you and what's-his-face break up?" Clayton asked, his grip on the steering wheel tightening dramatically, "I swear to god, I'll break his legs if he hurt you."

Logan rolled his eyes from the backseat, "That's a little dramatic, Clay."

"Did he put his hands on you? So help me god, I'll-"

"He's dead," Marcy cut in, expression cold and voice hollow as she shook her head, "I don't want to talk about it."

For a few seconds, the men were quiet. Finally, Logan let out a low, "well, shit," as he leaned back in his seat. "That sucks."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Clayton reached over and took her hand. "Well, if you do-"

"I don't."

"We're here for you."

Her blue eyes rolled at him as she let out a sarcastic, "Fantastic."

It was like time had reversed. Like back when she could go to her family for help and she relished in it. The bus was just as it had been, filled with the same people she had come to know as family and Damien was right smack in the middle of it, ready to shower her with all the affection she could handle. Her father was his usual carefree self, all smiles and filled with child-like excitement at the prospect of his two youngest spending some time with him. On threat of castration, Logan stayed quiet about her bereavement. Instead, he and his girlfriend made it their person mission to make sure she had a good time. It was easy to keep her mind off things, considering how they bounced around the country and in such a confined space.

When her first full moon alone came, Marcy was in Detroit. They were staying in a lavish hotel, but the woman didn't really think anything of it as she pulled a familiar flask from her bag. She made a barrier of mountain ash and stayed in it until her younger brother found her the next morning, passed out in the French bathtub in their suite's bathroom.

"Wow." Logan teased, unknowingly breaking the line of ash as he leaned against the tub, "someone certainly had fun last night."

Marcy moaned. With stiff limbs and an aching head, she peeked an eye open as she stretched out, "I wouldn't call it fun."

"There's my hardcore sister." The twenty year old leaned over and pinched her cheek, "I missed you!"

"Don't touch me."

"Oh, don't be such a little bitch. Come on, get up," He ruffled her dark hair, the exact shade of brown as his own, and kicked off from the tub, "Dad wants to get a tattoo and you're coming with us."

"Wonderful."

After checking the sterilization area and making sure the needles were new, Damien hopped into the chair. He beamed at the artist(a man in his late thirties who looked a bit awestruck) and began to roll up his pant leg, "I was thinking you could do something off the top of your head."

"Are you sure? What if you don't like it?"

"Then I've got something to complain about," Damien shrugged, his Cajun accent light and warm with affection as he gestured to his son, "Just make sure it's got _Cyan_ in it somewhere for my baby."

Logan blushed and glared half heartedly at his father, but his attention was drawn away as the women brushed past him. He arched a brow as his girlfriend, Gina, followed Marcy into the backroom, "Where do you think you're going?"

"Mars's gettin' a piercing," The girl replied with a shrug. She brushed her long blonde hair off her darkly tanned and tattooed shoulders before smirking, "In a place I'm sure she don't want her little brother seein'."

Logan stepped back, hands raised. "Say no more."

Marcy barely felt the needle poke through her delicate skin. When it instantly accepted the silver ring without so much as a tingle of redness or healed over skin, she was relieved, if not a little disappointed. The piercer didn't so much as bat an eye at her quick healing, too busy taking off his latex gloves to notice. As she stood, Marcy's eyes drifted to the artwork that lined the walls, over the inked drawings and various brightly colored doodles and pencil sketches.

Gina cocked her head, her arm resting on the back of her friend's chair as she asked, "Thinkin' about gettin' a tatt?"

"Mhm." The brunette stood, her fingers touching one of the picture frames absently.

"Anything particular you had in mind?" The man who had done her piercing asked, "Or are you more like your dad?"

"A wolf." Marcy's blue eyes fell to his, and she smirked when he winced at the coldness in her eyes, "Celtic styling. From lower sternum to natural waist."

Gina had watched the exchange warily. It wasn't like the botanist to be so assertive and dead eyed, but she didn't say anything. Logan had filled her in on the woman's loss, told her how she had broken down one night and sobbed into his chest, gasping and stuttering about a man named Peter and how they had fought before he died. She placed a careful hand on the woman's back and grinned, "Sounds awesome."

Marcy forced a smile back as another man entered the room. He sat down in the leather chair and flipped open a sketch pad, "How about some specifics, sweetheart?"

It took little over an hour, but since Damien's was still being worked on, nobody she knew noticed when her tattoo evaporated into her skin. The artist didn't so much as bat an eye, just smirked at her before he called out to the front desk, "Yo, Mika, we got one back here!"

"Coming!" A high pitched voice had replied, and a pretty Korean girl sauntered in, rolling a small blow torch in her palm. Her brown eyes had sparkled with mirth as she leaned over the tattoo artist's shoulder. With a sharp grin, she whispered conspiringly to the older woman, "so, what're you then?"

"Werewolf," Marcy replied stoically. Of course they found the only supernatural tattoo in the mid-west. "You?"

"Kitsune." Mika told her as her pupils slit and irises turned a vibrant green. Under her soft perfume, her scent changed to something more feral and natural. The girl shrugged as she lit the torch. "Born and raised."

"Hm."

The girl took the seat the artist had vacated. "This your first since you've been turned?"

"How'd you guess?" Marcy asked.

"Most werewolves come prepared. Or just do this part themselves…" She arched a brow, her eyes returning to their normal brown as she went on, "where's your pack?"

"I don't have one."

Mika nodded, seemingly impressed as she dropped the flame to the woman's pale skin. Marcy let out a growl, her claws slicing through her cuticles to dig into the leather chair as the girl carried on in a tone that was both nonchalant and oblivious to the woman's pain, "Omega. _Nice_. Don't see many of you around here."

Marcy didn't say anything, just let the petite brunette sweep the blue flame over her skin. Try as she might, her mind wandered back to Peter; to the burns over his body and the way he had felt pinned under that fucking beam. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to rid them of the tears that had begun to well in them. Marcy barely won.

"There," Mika pulled back, turning the flame down and off. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Is it done?"

"Mhm."

"Can I see it?"

The smaller girl handed the werewolf a hand mirror. Marcy checked the inked skin, unsurprised to find it already almost completely healed. The tattoo was just under her right breast, trailing over her ribs to her natural waist. She hummed and nodded her approval.

Mika walked her around to the front desk to pay for it, jotting her phone number down on one of the shops appointment cards. Marcy tucked it in her wallet and thought nothing of it as she continued on with her father's tour.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time March rolled around, Lydia Martin was in hell. Peter's soft whispers had turned to menacing growls and his light touches into violent claws. His mask had vanished. He was no longer playing the sweet boy next door. His appearance now more reminiscent of his former self; an older man with sharp eyes and white fangs that put the girl on edge.

She closed her eyes tightly, trying helplessly to convince herself that he wasn't real. That he was just a figment of her imagination brought on by too much anxiety and not enough sleep. A symptom of post-traumatic stress and nothing more. That didn't make it any easier to deal with him, especially when he tilted his head and watched her, like a starving predator waiting to pounce.

"It's almost time," The ghost purred in her ear. "There's just one more little step to take care of before the main event."

Lydia repressed a whimper and sucked in a breath. "And then it will be over? You'll go away?"

"Of course," He promised, all dead eyed smiles and soothing tones as he smoothed a strand of her red hair back from her eyes. "You'll have to find a woman for me. A woman named Marcella…"

"How? How do I find her?"

A wicked smile crossed Peter's lips and he leaned forward, "I'll tell you."

Marcy was sick of the partying and the men and constantly being on the road. As much as she loved her father and his hedonistic way of life, it got boring. Every night with a new man to take to bed every night and all of her worries taken care of with a simple pout, the werewolf was growing listless. She liked to think that she was over Peter. There were days when she didn't even think of him. Others when she was able to without crying. It pleased her, but Marcy still felt a catch in her stomach when she realized he wasn't coming back.

So, needless to say, she was thrilled to be back in her lab with Noel. He looked a little rough around the edges, brown eyes heavy and tired, and his scent…_off _ in a way that the woman couldn't quite determine. Marcy wasn't about to question it. What went on in Noel's body was no one but Noel's business- and frankly she really didn't care that much. As long as he was up and about, he was probably fine.

"I took care of your freaky, murderous plants," The man in question told her with a grin.

The smile that came to her lips was considerably more natural than it would've been two months before as she placed a hand on her chest, "Aw, you do care."

"I certainly do," Noel grinned, tossing her a pair of gloves. "Some pretty little redhead wanted a bouquet and I fought her for 'em."

"Really?" Marcy arched a brow as she pulled the latex gloves on, "Who?"

"Said her name was Martin. She left her phone number…" He dug into his pocket and pulled out a duct tape wallet. Not noticing the amused smirk he received for it, Noel began to rifle through it. Plucking it out, he carried on absently, "She was pretty insistent you call her back."

"Hm. Weird." The woman shrugged and took the scrap of paper from him.

The blond man arched a brow and turned back to his catnip plant, "You gonna call her?"

"May as well. I mean, it couldn't hurt, right?"

"Good." He smirked at her, "I'm just about done here, but the idea of leaving you alone with my precious babies puts me on edge."

Marcy arched a brow, looked up from her cell phone and with a hint of condescension in her voice asked, "Precious babies?"

"Precious." Noel pulled the potted plant closer as he glared at her, "Babies."

Lydia Martin was an intelligent high school student, but truth be told Marcy was a touch unsettled by her. Her gaze followed the woman around the lab, completely silent and completely still despite the botanist's attempts at conversation. Perhaps if she had been aware of the stress the girl was under, she would've been more understanding.

Lydia tensed as the man hovered around the brunette. Peter smiled at the woman, all fond warmth as he watched her carefully. Despite where his gaze lingered, he spoke to the teenager in a docile tone. "My, my…she is beautiful, isn't she?"

He ran a clawed finger down the woman's arm, her lab coat shifting and falling away, transforming into a pink blouse. Marcy didn't seem to notice as she clipped away at the plant with careful precision.

"My first." He told Lydia proudly, ignoring the way she jerked as the woman in front of her was suddenly drenched in blood. Her dark hair was matted to her tear stained face and her silk shirt torn open, flashing deep scratches on her back. Peter's grin widened at the sight. Brushing his fingers along the deepest of them, he cooed, "My _best_."

Marcy glanced over at Lydia. The redhead's eyes were wide and her breathing uneven, her heart pounding in her chest as she stared back at her. The woman blinked, arched a brow and went back to trying to start a conversation, "What did you say you need this for again, sweetheart?"

Just like that, reality snapped back into place for the Martin girl. She let out a sigh of relief at the sight of Marcy's pristine white lab coat, at her clear skin and pulled back hair, and answered breathlessly, "School project."

"You're teachers are okay with you using aconitum for a science project?" The woman asked with a hint of doubt.

"As long as it gets them state wide recognition, they don't care what I use."

"Or how," Peter added helpfully, although he could only be heard by the redhead. "Such a sad state of affairs when a pretty girl only need bat her eyelashes at a sex starved chemistry teacher to get her way…not that Harris has ever been on the highest level of morality as it were."

Marcy zipped up a plastic baggie filled with purple flowers up as she spoke, "Well, just remember us little people who helped you along the way when you're making your Nobel acceptance speech, alright?" When Lydia reached for it, the woman held it tight, "Are you okay? I don't want to pry, but you seem a little spacey."

"Fine," Lydia replied curtly, watching Peter twist the ponytail of Marcy's dark hair around his finger. It was a disturbingly tender gesture. Incredibly intimate judging by the way he brushed his nose against her cheek. The woman didn't notice, her eyes still focused on the redhead's features. Swallowing, Lydia forced, "I should really get going…my mom's in the car."

"Oh, god, I'm sorry, I just assumed you had taken a bus." Marcy chuckled and let go of the baggie. "Probably shouldn't have with the purse. Prada, right?"

"Mhm."

"Very nice." Marcy smiled at her and placed a hand on her shoulder, steering her toward the door. "Alright then. Be careful with that stuff. If I hadn't got such glowing letters of recommendation from your teachers, I wouldn't be giving it to you." Her expression hardened momentarily, "don't try to smoke it. It's not one of those plants."

A touch indignant, Lydia frowned at her, "I won't."

"I mean it, Lydia, it will only end badly for you if you try to smoke it," Marcy warned, speaking from experience, "Promise me you'll use it wisely."

"I will."

"And I," Peter smiled, trailing his fingers down her arm and once again reducing her to a bloodied mess, "will be seeing you soon, Marcella."

The woman continued to eye the teen skeptically, but nodded regardless. "Good. I'll walk you out."

"I think I can find my way, thanks."

Marcy watched her go with a frown. Clearly, that girl had some problems. The brunette shook her head and stripped out of her latex gloves. Not thinking of the implications of giving a mentally unstable teenage girl a deadly plant, or more realistically, not really caring, Marcy stripped out of her lab coat.

Her phone beeped. An alarm reading _WBD_ flashed back at her. With a grimace, she snatched her mini backpack purse off the hook beside her jacket and slipped into the hall. The campus was hardly bustling, with only a few lone students straggling around after classes. She shot a group of them a forced smile before she slipped into the bathroom. After making a quick check to make sure that it was empty, Marcy locked the door.

With a sigh, she set her purse on the counter. Plucking out a tiny eye drop bottle, she quickly flicked the water on. As it began to run, she set the bottle down next to the sink. The woman took out her dissection kit and a small packet of powdered Wolfsbane. As she measured out a low amount of the powder (barely enough to cover the tip of her scalpel, but still more than she had the week before), she bit her lip. Potentially, this could be a terrible idea or it could save her life one day. Marcy's hand that held the scalpel shook slightly as she added it to the empty dropper. She then filled it with water, shook it until the powder dissolved and sucked up a drop.

Squaring her shoulders, the werewolf swallowed and tilted her head back. With unsteady finger, she raised the diluted Wolfsbane to her eye. It stung- a flash of heat that led into a steady burn. Marcy squeezed her eyes shut and sucked a deep breathe through her teeth as she added another drop to her opposite eye.

It was a familiar, intense itch that she had grown accustom to over the past month. The feeling of the Wolfsbane seeping into her bloodstream wasn't a pleasant one, but it was hardly unbearable. With tightly pursed lips, she continued the action, one drop to each eye, ten times. When she stopped, tears were leaking from her aching eyes. With a heavy sigh, she stood there, the light bright behind her closed lids irritating but only for a few minutes. Slowly but surely, the flare died out and Marcy opened her blue eyes. Her vision was slightly fuzzy, but by the time the tears had stopped, it was perfectly clear once more.

Her gaze was met in the mirror, her expression painfully blank and the woman was unsettlingly numb as she leaned forward. Her eyes were puffy with dark bags hanging below them. Faint black veins showed through her pale skin and along the whites of her eyes, but there was little to be done about those. Marcy sighed and tucked the packet of purple powder away and pulling out a small bottle of concealer. With quick, well-practiced fingers, she smoothed the cream over the bags under her eyes, hiding the thin lines from view.

A headache ate away at the back of her mind, but she ignored it. Marcy gathered her things and slipped out of the bathroom. The halls were deserted now, without a soul to be seen. In fact, just about the entire campus was quiet with most students back at their dorms or studying for upcoming exams. It unsettled the werewolf, but at least she didn't have to deal with any drunken frat boys as she trekked through the courtyard. She inhaled deeply, the crisp air pleasant to her frayed nerves. Upping her dosage always left Marcy a bit on edge, but given the fact that it hadn't sent her into cardiac arrest or shock, the woman assumed her body had accepted the new dosage with minor difficulty. She hopped up her stoop with strong, graceful legs. She kept a rigid fitness routine; too much pent up energy typically made the full moons harder on her, so most nights she found herself running a few miles in an attempt to calm down after a day of dealing with college kids instead of ripping their throats out.

Marcy pulled out her ponytail and made her way up the stairs. She slipped into her apartment, locking the door and latching the mountain ash bar shut to form a barrier. Kicking off her shoes, the woman rolled her neck on her shoulders. Thanks to lycanthropy, there were no kinks or stiffness in them. One night of murderous rage a month was a small price to pay for the ability to lean over a microscope for twelve hours without so much as a twinge.

After a hot shower and a bowl of instant noodles, Marcy fell asleep on the couch. Had a knock not come to her door, she probably would've stayed there all night. She peeked an eye open and reached for her cell on the coffee table. Flipping it open, she scowled. The knocking continued and the Omega's eyes flashed.

"Whoever it is, _fuck off!" _ She called, dropping her head onto the arm rest.

When it became more consistent, Marcy rolled off the couch.

"It is one in the fucking morning…" She growled, stomping over to the door and bending to undo the latch. A familiar scent made her pause. Her heart skipped a beat as she slowly undid the mountain ash latch and unlocked her door. With the chain still in place, she pulled it open.

There Peter Hale stood, caked in dirt and grime, a smug smirk on his lips as he asked, "Miss me?"

**A/N: It's not a real sequel until there's some eye gore. The title has been changed to 'Habits'. Also, if you read it, my other Peter Hale fic will be updated as soon as it gets back from the Beta's. ^.^ Hope you liked the chapter. I was a bit worried about having them reunite too soon, but I missed writing them.**


	3. Chapter 3

Peter watched as the blood drained from the woman's face. He smiled deviously at her, but it fell as she slowly shut the door on him. The newly resurrected man blinked. He glanced around the hallway, a draft making him shiver in his black boxer briefs. A wince flickered across his face as his legs almost gave out from under him. It had taken most of his strength to get to her apartment and he had barely managed to get himself upright after more or less crawling up the stairway on his hands and knees.

Admittedly, the standing had been mostly for dramatic effect.

Able to hear her heartbeat fluttering through the door, he knocked softly. "Marcella."

"You're not real!" The woman shrieked, "I must've O.D'ed! You're not real!"

"Mar-" Peter cringed. A flash of pain spiked down his spine. Legs unable to hold him any longer, his knees smacked against the closed door. His hip knocked against the frame and a clawed hand raked down the wall in an attempt to steady himself. A few harsh pants left his lips as he slumped against the door.

Chain lock still in place, Marcy carefully eased the door open. She could feel the man's weight pressing against it, heavy and nauseatingly _real_. Her lips pursed, she inhaled deeply through her nose; his scent was familiar, but soiled; heavy with the earth and forest. His bare feet and long legs were visible, but all she could hear was his strained breathing and hammering heart. It was definitely him. Squeezing her eyes shut, she eased the door closed and unlocked the chain.

Peter made a pitiful sight. Crumpled up on the floor of the deserted hall, dirt covered as he looked up at her pathetically. Marcy sighed as their gazes met.

"Goddamn it, Peter." The woman muttered as she crouched beside him.

He smirked weakly at her. "You never answered my question."

Her hand was surprisingly steady and her features unsettlingly blank as she pressed two fingers to the side of his throat. His blue eyes lingered on her face as she took his pulse, finding it strong, if not a little slow under her touch. Peter leaned toward her, his eyes fluttering at her familiar scent- there was something amiss about it, something not quite right, but he was too exhausted to try and figure out what it was. Perhaps it was because his was missing- her scent had been so often entwined with his own, it was strange not being able to catch it on her.

"Don't fall asleep on me," Marcy warned, "I don't intend on carrying your happy ass inside all by myself."

Peter's smirk widened and hissed as she eased him to his feet. "_Careful_. Jeez."

The woman ignored him, helping him inside and kicking the door shut behind them. Holding most of his weight, she led him to the bathroom. No way she putting him on the couch- not with him caked with dirt and he sure as hell wasn't going in her bed like that. He let out a shaky breath as she leaned him against the sink.

"Still haven't-" Peter huffed as she yanked down his boxer briefs. With a strained chuckle, he teased, letting his head lulled back on his shoulders. "Guess that answers my question."

Marcy rolled her eyes and didn't comment as he grasped her by the shoulder. He stepped out of them. Bending to pick them up, she nodded to the bath behind her. "Get in the tub."

"Hm." He pursed his lips, but eased into the cold French style bathtub without a word. As his aching back jolted when it hit the cold porcelain, he watched Marcy leave with half lidded eyes. They fluttered closed, listening to her move around the apartment; she locked the door, put what he could only assume to be his underwear in the wash and began to route through one of her kitchen cabinets. He must've dozed off, because the flow of lukewarm water hitting his feet startled him.

"I thought I told you not to fall asleep." The brunette teased from the side of the tub. Her dark hair had been pulled from her face and he was surprised by the dark bags that hung under her eyes.

He blinked at them, letting his gaze caress her worn features. She looked as good as she had when he was alive, her body still taut and trim, but there was a heaviness in her face that worried him. He briefly wondered if he had caused it. Ignoring the knot in his stomach, he replied, "Wasn't asleep."

"Mhm," She eased the temperature up, testing it with her fingers before cranking the hot water up full blast. When he winced, she added some cold to it, and to her tone, "Gonna tell me how it is you're back from the dead?"

"Was never dead." The man smirked, his dirty hand coming up to her face. He ran his middle finger along her brow, curving over her cheek and jaw with a gentle touch.

"Yes you were," Marcy swallowed the lump in her throat at his caress, adding a bit of Bubble Gum flavored bubble bath to the water. Her gaze dropped to the facet. She began to move her hand through the steaming liquid, spreading the bubbles around, over his legs and chest, "I should know. I buried you."

He snickered, leaning closer to her. Vaguely, he wondered if this was what it was like to be drunk. He supposed it was. "Well, I was for a little while. A few hours before I started to heal…I just needed to jump start the healing process."

"Like you did with Laura?"

His claws pricked out at the mention of his niece's name. They didn't bite into her skin, just tickled it. "Kind of."

"Does that mean Derek's dead?" She smiled at the thought and picked up a plastic pitcher she had brought in from the kitchen. Slipping it under the facet, she filled it, before she turned the water off entirely.

"No."

The bathwater was already turning a light grey under the bubbles. Her lips pursed. That was going to be a bitch to clean. Dunking a face cloth into the clean water of the clear container, she asked him how it was he had done it. Brought himself back from the dead. The thought made her shudder and her stomach twist in knots. It was unnatural. Some things weren't meant to be reversed and death was one of them; she had seen enough zombies movies to know that.

Things that went against the natural order had a habit of ending badly for all those in involved. And Marcy was most definitely involved. She cursed her sentimentality. If she had any sense at all she would've left him out there to die. Again. The woman swallowed; she never could've done that. Part of her still hated Peter for what he did to her- for dying on her and leaving her alone, leaving her to be an Omega because of his stupid pride; If he had just apologized to her, if he had just sought her out instead of going after Kate Argent alone, if he had trusted her instead of Derek.

But another part, a very small, but very vocal and very stubborn, part of her still loved him. Even after all the pain he had caused her and all the trouble that came along with him. And it was that part that made Marcy hate herself more than she ever could him.

"I had some help," Barely able to keep his eyes open, Peter peered up at her with a hint of a smile on his lips, "You…Lydia…very helpful."

"Lydia _Martin_?" The woman asked with surprise. Carefully, she swiped the damp cloth over his brow. Peter groaned at the contact, slumping toward her with a pleased sigh. She went on absently, "She's just a kid, how did you-"

"She's immune." He slurred.

The Omega frowned, "Immune to what? Peter?"

A panic welled in her when he didn't respond. His fingers twitched against her cheek and she let out a sigh of relief as she ran the cloth over his closed eyes. His lips twitched as she cleaned his face with cautious and tender movements. Over his nose and cheeks, easing down his throat and shoulders, he inhaled deeply before speaking.

"I missed you."

Marcy's hand stilled.

"More than I thought I would," He admitted with a pained grimace on his face. Blue eyes peeked open to take in her expression, and his heart clenched when he found it utterly blank. He retracted his thumb and brushed his finger over her pale skin, his thumb framing her plump bottom lip delicately.

Without a word, she continued. Peter sighed and let his eyes drifted closed once more. The woman's gaze softened. Frankly, he looked like hell; better than when they had buried him, obviously, but not much. Running the cloth over his neck and shoulders, she shook her head with a huff. It was all very surreal. The grime was thickly caked in his collar bones and the crease of his neck, but she did as best she could before moving to his underarms and chest. The bubbles were beginning to disperse, leaving him exposed as she made quick work of his stomach and cock. He would have to clean more thoroughly when he woke up, obviously, but she wasn't about to risk him getting some kind of infection due to her modesty. Besides, it wasn't like she hadn't seen or touched him there before…although Marcy still felt like an incredible pervert for touching a half conscious man, even if in a nonsexual way. Her hands brushed over his legs and she was pleased to see that the dirt was coming off easier than before. She smirked triumphantly. She knew the bubble bath would be a good idea.

She pulled the plug, the dirty water draining quickly as she touched his shoulder. Squeezing it just hard enough to wake him, Marcy instructed, "Come on, Pete, sit up."

He grunted but did as he was told. Hands bracing both sides of the tub, he pulled himself up. Another gush of water trickled over his feet as she ran the tap, careful this time to mind the heat. Peter sighed as she ran the cloth over his back. He had been given sponge baths before, it was all part of being a paralyzed invalid, but this felt significantly different. It wasn't that it was more gentle or more erotic. It was that it was his _Beta_, the one person he should've been taking care of, taking care of _him_.

She was in a place of power; Marcy could easily tear him to shreds and he'd be too weak to stop her. Considering how they had left off, it was kind of surprising she hadn't. There was no instinct to protect him anymore, he had known that the minute she shut the door. No, he had known that the minute he regained his senses; something was different, besides his new status and her hesitance. The bond was still there, not as strong but just as real, a thrumming in his veins to find her. At his weakest, he had known she'd protect him. That she would care for him and that had been a startling, but welcomed realization.

"Lean your head back."

Peter did as he was told, baring his throat without hesitance as she began to work shampoo through his dark, muddied hair. It was lightly scented with coconut and lathered quickly. A sigh slipped from his lips as her hand covered his eyes.

"Don't fall asleep."

"I won't."

"You said that last time and I came back and you were passed out," Marcy teased, filling the pitcher and pouring the water over his brow. It was an action she had seen done many times by her older sister with her nephew, but she still felt a little awkward executing it. She ran the hand that was resting on his eyes through his thick locks, ridding it of the sweet smelling product as best she could before filling the pitcher again.

After repeating the process two more times, she asked, "Can you stand?"

"I think so."

"Alright, come on, up you go."

He had barely managed to get on his feet before one of them slid out from under him. This time, when Peter slipped, she caught him.

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, I wanted this chapter to be good because I've been planning it for a while. **


	4. Chapter 4

The trip to the bedroom wasn't the smoothest, with Peter barely able to stay on his feet and Marcy still a bit weak from the Wolfsbane dosage she had taken earlier in the night, but they managed. There were a few stumbles, but they managed. The man winced as she all but dropped him onto the mattress, his head smacking against the cherry wood headboard.

"Easy," he chided, earning an eye roll from the Omega.

"Sorry."

Peter nuzzled against her throat as she leaned over him to pull back the comforter. The strange smell bit at his senses, irritating and confusing them. But he ignored that, focusing on the familiar as his hand came up to cup the back of her neck to pull her closer. Peter tentatively licked at the exposed skin, drinking in the familiar taste, the familiar warmth, anything but the unfamiliar smell on the sheets and pulsing through her bloodstream. Marcy stiffened under his touch. A cringe creased his brow as she leaned back, features hard and unreadable. Her fingers raised, hovering over his cheek, but she let them fall before they touched.

The man sneered weakly at her apathy. In truth, Peter could handle her being mad at him. He could even handle her hating him, but this indifference; after all they'd been through...it hurt that she could shut him out so easily. It was worse than hatred. Frustrated and with deeply buried hurt, he asked, "You hate me that much?"

"I never hated you." Marcy dropped his gaze to his hand, limp on the cool sheets as she confessed, "I loved you."

His fingers twitched.

"And you tried to use me as your whore," She finished, voice and eyes cold. His hand slipped over hers, blanketing it a moment before she pulled away. "I didn't deserve that, Peter."

"No," He agreed with a frown, "you didn't. Can you forgive me?"

Voice hoarse with unshed tears, the woman told him to get some sleep and slipped out the door.

Peter watched her go with a sigh. He closed his eyes, listening to the woman try to muffle her sobs outside the room. The bed didn't smell right. It didn't smell like them anymore; it smelt like cleaning products. Like cheap cologne and strangers. It didn't surprise him that his Beta had sought out other men, even if she had said she loved him. He wondered if that was true. Marcy hardly seemed the monogamous type, but the thought that she had tried to replace him so quickly stung a bit. He had only been dead a few months. How long had she waited to bring another man to her bed? Had she not grieved him at all? It was those thoughts that ate away at Peter as he fell asleep.

When he woke, it was morning. He was still rather sluggish, his movements stiff and strength low as he dragged himself forward. His bones ached, but the pain was manageable. Peter inhaled deeply before he willed himself to stand. Muscles tightened in his legs, sending a crinkle of heat through his veins as he made his way out of the room. He sniffed the air again. Marcy was nowhere in sight, her scent the only remnant of her presence.

A sigh slipped from his throat. The former Alpha moved toward the bathroom, his steps slow and precise as he got in the shower. The idea of a bath had been tempting, but he didn't want to chance a fall; not while he was alone. Cranking the hot water, Peter bit the inside of his cheek, the woman's words from the night before coming back to him.

It didn't surprise him that Marcy was in love with him. He had suspected for some time; as feral as she pretended to be, her ruthlessness was rooted in sentimentality. Her emotions ruled her, from her jealousy that killed Jennifer to how desperately she had clung to him after he shared his pain with her. No, what surprised him was that Marcy _admitted_ it.

Blue eyes closed as steam encompassed the stall, the scalding water pouring over his shoulders. He tilted his head back, soaking his hair. Peter never thought she would admit it, not with her pride. His eyes peeked open. He washed away the grime gentle hands had missed the night before, mind wandering to the woman who had been his right hand.

Marcy was still very much an enigma to him. Yes, he knew every line of her body, every soft sound she made and how prettily she flushed when he touched her. But her past, her life before the bite, her life before _him_, Peter didn't know anything. Just that she had been a broken college student he had been able to manipulate and transform into an animal. The man felt his stomach clench and without looking behind him he turned off the water.

Peter had just wrapped the towel around his waist when the front door opened. Marcy slipped into the apartment, the bag she in her hands crinkling slightly as he came into view. Her heart skipped, but her features remained an emotionless mask.

"Got you some clothes." She lifted the bag. "Just some sweats, but…"

"Thanks." Peter crossed down the hall quickly, ignoring the slight flinch she gave when he reached for it. He took the bag and dropped his tone. It was light and passive, almost teasing as he leaned into her space, "You don't have to be scared of me, you know."

"I'm not scared of you." The woman's heart was steady, but her gaze faltered when it reached his own. Anxiety worked it's way into her scent, a dull twist of tartness that grew stronger the longer he stared.

A smirk pulled at his lips, "Marcella."

"Okay, maybe I am." The brunette swallowed. Her eyes narrowed on his face as she took in his worn features. "Why me? Why'd you come to me?

"I needed someone I could trust," his voice was soft as he lifted a hand to cup her cheek. He thumbed the bag under her eyes carefully, "I needed you."

Marcy shook her head, bottom lip quivering as she sighed, "Don't give me that. Just…just tell me what you need."

"I need you to go see a man named Deaton. Scott's boss." The man continued to touch her face, his fingers moving over her temple and down her jaw in a lover's caress. "He might know a way for me to heal faster."

She gave him a brisk nod and pulled away.

"Marcella?"

The woman paused.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your bereavement with my resurrection." He smirked at her restrained laugh, warming flooding through him at the familiar sound. Cocky and quietly pleased, Peter told her, "I knew you missed me."

"Just go get changed," Marcy tossed him a glance over her shoulder, gaze raking over his naked form. It lingered appreciatively on his chest before dropping to the hand that held up his towel. With a wry smirk, she continued, "you better clean that up; you're getting water all over my floors."

"I'll get right to that," the man smirked, letting the towel drop to the hardwood floor. At her blush, he snickered. Marcy said nothing, just slipped out of the apartment with a huff.

Admittedly, she didn't go inside the office right away. She had hailed a cab, not wanting to involve Clay and sat at the bus stop across the street from the clinic. The idea of going to an outsider for help went against her nature, but she _did_ want to help Peter. She just had to steel her nerve first. The air was cold and crisp, unsurprising for the time of year, but she was numb to it. Her dark hair danced around her face as the wind blew, and with a deep breath, the werewolf stood.

She fixed her coat, primped her hair, then slipped into the clinic. It reeked of wet fur and teenagers. A bell chimed over her head and a faint voice called, "Just a minute!" from the backroom.

Moments later a handsome man with dark skin and a goatee came out. With a warm smile that made Marcy uncomfortable, he pulled off his latex gloves. "Hello. How may I help you?"

"Are you Deaton?"

"I am," He moved closer to the counter, but made no move to leave its safety. "How can I help?"

Her blue eyes blinked passively back at him, "Like, _the_ Deaton?"

The man tilted his head slightly, his tone a bit more suspect than before, "I am." His gaze raked over her petite form. Her clothes were conservative and modest, features tired but surprisingly delicate. Not at all what he was expecting from Peter's accomplice. With a hint of hostility in his face, he replied, "you must be Marcella."

"It's Marcy," She corrected, moving closer to the counter. Her eyes dropped to it and she pointed at it with a dainty finger, "Mountain Ash?"

"That's right."

The brunette nodded her approval. "Good call."

"I assume you're here about Peter," Deaton spoke in an almost wistful tone. It irritated the woman a touch, but she kept quiet. Angering the only man who could help them didn't seem like the most practical approach. The vet shook his head, "well, I'm sorry to say there's nothing I can do for him."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"You were going to ask how to get him back to full strength. How to make him an Alpha again," His smile turned cold, "how to make sure all your hard work didn't go to waste."

Marcy's eyes narrowed, "Don't assume to know anything about me and Peter." They moved around the room and she moved to sit on one of the chairs that were lined along the wall as she carried on, "I didn't bring Peter back. He did that himself, and frankly, I'm not sure he's ready to be an Alpha again…"

"And you are?"

She let out a scoff, "I don't want to be an Alpha. I don't want anything to do with the shitty little pack of teenagers this town has." Her gaze dropped, eyes glazed over and blank. The woman swallowed, but continued in a steely tone, "But I do want to know about Peter's condition and I'll take any information you can give me."

Deaton observed her warily. Her posture was stiff and unnatural, too rigid to be comfortable; spine bent forward into herself. He took in the slight tremble of her hands and how shallow and irregular her breathing was. A frown pulled at his lips. Without second thought, the man crossed the barrier, pulling a pen light out from his pocket as he knelt in front of her. Careful fingers tilted her chin up, her eyes flashing a threatening yellow that caught him off guard. Without showing it, the vet clicked the light on. Deaton's lips pursed as he shone it in her eyes, first the right then the left. The regularly red or pink vessels in her eyes were a wicked black.

Pulling back, he arched a brow at her, "Did he do this to you?"

"Did he what? Dose me with Wolfsbane?" The woman offered with a hint of coarse amusement, "no. Right now, I'm fairly certain he couldn't if he wanted to."

"Than what happened?" He stood and offered his hand to her, "come with me."

Marcy eyed it dubiously, but accepted his help. "I'm not part of Derek's pack."

"Did I say you were?"

"Well, no, but aren't you like his…" Her nose wrinkled as she stepped over the barrier, "advisor or something? I don't think he'd like you helping me."

A wry smirk crossed over his lips, "What Derek doesn't know won't hurt him. Get on the table please."

"I'd prefer to stand." She replied, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, holding the trembling limbs as close to her body as she could get them.

Deaton visibly resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _Werewolves_. "Very well. Would you care to explain why it is you've taken to dosing yourself with Wolfsbane? And how often?"

"Four times a day." She swallowed, a touch embarrassed as he arched a brow at her. Fighting a blush, the brunette explained, "If I'm going to be an Omega, I have to be able to handle anything thrown at me- that includes hunters."

"You think you can build up immunity?"

"I can try."

He blinked, clearly a touch surprised and maybe a touch disturbed by her lack of self preservation. "I'll admit, I've never heard that particular method of self defense before." Deaton moved around his desk and pulled out a fresh pair of gloves and a sterile needle. Gesturing to her arm, he asked, "Maybe I?"

Marcy shrugged off her coat. Setting it on the table, she spoke in a clinical, clipped tone as she rolled up her sleeve, "I've run a few tests myself and beside some headaches, fatigue and nausea, there hasn't been any major side effects so far."

He tied a tourniquet around her upper arm. The woman stiffened but didn't pull away.

"Just in case," The man wet a cotton ball with alcohol and rubbed it over the inside of her elbow. Marcy wrinkled her nose at the sharp smell, but stayed respectfully silent as he spoke, "You say you do this four times a day? For how long?"

"Maybe a month." She watched him ready the needle. "Once when I get up, then at lunch, after school and again before I go to bed."

The vet let out a disapproving hum and pressed the needle in. As her blood wound down the tubing, he chastised her in a gentle tone, "That could be rather dangerous. If you ever choked or started to vomit-"

"Well, than, all my werewolf problems would be solved than, wouldn't they?" She offered him a sardonic smile. "No, I'm not worried about that. It's not one of the side effects so far, the worst I've had is some black tears on the bodily functions front."

"And how much are you using?" Deaton untied the tourniquet and pulled out the needle. He watched her skin heal instantly and made a mental note that her heal factor was working as it should be.

"Two milliliters at most, deluded with water each time."

Another disapproving hum, but this one was followed by a question she wasn't expecting, "Does Peter know?"

She blinked at him. Her surprise was clear and honest, innocent on her soft features. "No. He's been back a day, I'm not going to spring this on him…" Her gaze flickered over his features, "you're not going to tell me how to help him heal, are you?"

"The only thing that can help him now is time."

"So, it's permanent? I'm not going to wake up to a corpse in my bed?" Marcy kept her head down and her voice light, but the man still caught a hint of eagerness in it.

"What Peter did required some very serious and strong magic and while he certainly won't be at full strength for a while," Deaton nodded begrudgingly. "I would say so long as he doesn't cross anyone, he should be fine. Or as fine as someone like Peter can be."

The Omega beamed at him, worry and fear disappearing from her face and for a moment Deaton was struck by how genuine it seemed. Moreover, how _young_ it made her appear. More like a girl barely out of high school than a woman in her mid-twenties. She pulled it back quickly, but a small smirk remained, pulling at the corner of her mouth. The woman nodded to herself, "Good."

"Hm."

Marcy looked up at him, "What?"

"Nothing," Deaton smiled at her. It was a cryptic, forced little twitch of his lips. He motioned for her to follow him, "I'm afraid my next appointment should be here shortly, Marcy. Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time."

"If you have any more info on Peter, I'd prefer it before I go."

"As of right now," The man shook his head, "I know as much as you do."

It was a lie, but his heartbeat was smooth and normal, so Marcy missed it as she crossed the barrier. He closed it behind her, but she paid it no mind, not bothering to thank or address him as she left. A genuine smile crossed the emissary's lips as the door shut. It was an interesting development; if Peter Hale was as truly dead inside as he claimed to be, he would've never brought himself to a rival werewolf. It showed an inordinate amount of trust. Briefly, the vet wondered just how deep the bond between the two ran, but pushed the thought aside as the door chimed and a customer stepped in with a cat carrier.

**A/N: So sorry for the long wait, I was without a beta for the longest time. But, she's back and things are up and running, so they should come quicker from now on. Hope Deaton wasn't OOC.**


	5. Chapter 5

Peter frowned at the latch at the bottom of her door. With a tentative finger, he pulled the small chain that connected to both sides of the Mountain Ash panel. They raised accordingly, breaking the barrier. A proud smirk tugged at his lips, but before it could blossom into a full smile he heard her coming down the hall.

He shuffled out of the way, slipping into the living area to avoid suspicion- or worse, to avoid her thinking he was waiting around for her like a helpless pup. He had just sat back on the couch when the door opened. The quiet sound of paper rustling and the scent of grease and MSG wafted into the room. Peter's mouth watered. He hadn't found much of anything to eat in the woman's cupboards; they were barren except for the odd package of Raman. Her fridge hadn't even have that much.

The brunette stepped into sight. Her face flushed from the cold, she held up the bag, "Got Chinese- why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

He smirked at her puzzled frown. "I find them constricting."

"I know I got your some undershirts," Marcy continued absently dismissing him before turning on her heel.

Peter scowled and followed her. He leaned against the doorway, watching as she fluttered about the kitchen; getting out plates and silverware, setting two places. Her hands were shaky and her movements a bit dull, but he didn't think anything of it. It was probably from a bad night's sleep.

"What did Deaton say?"

Blue eyes lifted to his, hesitant and sad, "He said the only thing that can help is time." A weak smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, "But on the plus side, he said it was permanent. So long as you don't piss anyone off."

"Well," Peter smiled wickedly and moved to sit at the table, "I'll try my best."

"Well," she mocked, "it was nice knowing you."

He let out a huff of laughter and accepted the plate of food offered to him. He didn't thank her, too surprised to as she waited for him to start eating. Marcy was watching him carefully, gaze not quite as soft as it had once been, but not as cold as the night before. The delectable scent distracted him from her attention and he set about his meal like a ravish animal.

"Careful," She warned gently, taking a step forward as if to stop him, "you haven't eaten in a while, you wouldn't want to…"

As if on cue, the man shot from his seat, running as fast as his legs would carry him to the bathroom. At the sound of his retching, the woman sighed and followed. Peter made a pitiful sight. On his knees, he heaved and choked as he vomited up his meal. His body racked with strain, muscles visibly tensing under his abnormally pale, but still freckled skin.

"I tried to warn you." The woman pursed her lips, nose wrinkling as the smell of bile overpowered the room. With a huff, she crossed over to him, her hands easing over his naked shoulders as he spit into the bowl. Marcy nudged the back of his neck with her nose, an affectionate gesture of sympathy as she gave his arms a squeeze. "Feel better?"

"Not really," The man muttered, leaning back, away from the foul smell.

She steadied him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling his weak form to her chest; his skin was clammy and unsettlingly cold against her own. The embrace caught him off guard, but he welcomed it, his hand coming up to grasp her forearm as her thighs framed his waist from behind. Peter sighed deeply. He had missed the intimacy more than the sex, but having her willingly touch him pleased him more than he was willing to admit. Before he had turned her, Peter could admit he had been rather touch starved; a coma patient with no family, the closest he had to intimacy were sponge baths, and those hardly counted.

"Come on, Pete," Marcy carefully slipped her arms under his and helped him stand. "Let's get you something that might be a bit easier on your stomach."

She led him back to the kitchen and quickly cleaned up the Chinese food and put a pot of water on the stove. The man frowned, said nothing, as she turned to look at him. Her hands braced the counter behind her, blue eyes sharp and cold.

"How'd you do it?"

Peter blinked at her.

"How'd you come back?" She demanded, a touch afraid and more than a bit tense. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're back-"

"Are you?"

Her gaze softened, but only for a moment, before she snapped at him, "Of course I am! Those were the hardest months of my life, Pete."

A sadistic smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, "I bet. Glad all that pesky grief didn't interfere with your sex life."

"I wanted _you_," Marcy swallowed, ignoring the sting of tears that pricked her eyes as she turned off the stove, "and I couldn't stand coming back to an empty bed that smelled like you. You were fucking everywhere, Peter, I had to do something."

"To get rid of me."

"To get _over_ you."

He tilted his head subtly, watching as she poured some of the hot water into a bowl and added a flavor packet from one of her packages of Ramen. She set it in front of him without a word before taking a seat across from him. Rubbing her temple, Marcy sighed as he began to slowly sip down the broth.

"It's not natural. People aren't supposed to come back from the dead, Peter."

"Wasn't dead," He muttered, eyes fluttering closed as the simple soup spread warmth throughout his aching body.

"Mostly dead, then." She pursed her lips a moment. "If it's permanent, if you're really…here for good, what are you going to do?"

Peter glanced up at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, are you going to try and become an Alpha again? Try and find a new pack?"

"I'm going to hail to Derek's rational side."

"Derek." She repeated, expression tight and just a touch disbelieving.

He took another swallow of his soup. "That's right."

"You remember that he killed you, right? Slit your throat from ear to ear?" The woman mimed the action rolling a finger over her neck, "After he had you set on _fire_."

"Nobody's perfect, Marcella."

Without a word, the woman stood up and went in to her room. When Peter followed suit some five minutes later, she was laying on her side, eyes locked on the wall. The man sighed at her dramatics and slid into bed with her. The press of her body was familiar and safe as he eased his hand down her side.

Nuzzling against the back of her neck, he gave her jaw a quick, light nip when she ignored him. "Don't be like this. He's my nephew-"

"He killed you." She replied stoically. "He killed you and we buried you and he came back and expected me to join his pack like nothing had happened."

"_We_?"

Marcy was quiet.

"You were there? He called you?" Peter felt his claws prick out, but was careful not to cut her with them. Had Derek called to gloat? Had he dragged her back to his body in a show of dominance? He doubted it, but her answer was something far more jarring.

She shook her head, "No. I just…I just knew."

With a hum, he pulled her closer to him. "Is that right?"

"I don't- I don't know why, it was…" Marcy sighed and buried her face into the mattress. His claws continued to caress her arms, careful and soft.

"Well, I'm sorry you had to see me that way."

"I can't do it, Peter. I can't be part of his pack. I won't be."

Peter sighed and rolled onto his back. "He's the only family I have left, Marcella and I need an Alpha if I want to heal."

"I know. I know, but I don't see him that way. All I see when I look at him is the man who killed you and I can't-" He cringed as her voice cracked, "and I can't forgive him for that."

"I'm not asking you to. I just need you to tolerate him for me. For now."

The woman rolled onto her back. The couple stared at the ceiling a moment before she spoke, "I'm sorry I called you a cripple."

"I'm sorry I called you a whore." He replied off the cuff.

"Still, I shouldn't have went there. It was too far," She swallowed and turned to face him. "But I don't need you. Not as an Alpha." Marcy paused, thinking back to all the grief they had been through before she added, "I don't think you were a very good Alpha."

The man stayed quiet as she took in his profile. His features were unsettlingly blank, lips tight and breathing steady as she sat up a touch. Leaning over him, Marcy ran a hand over his chest, from collarbone to collarbone. In a quiet, hopeful voice, she told him, "I don't mind being an Omega. It's a bit scarier on full moons and it gets lonely some times, but if you wanted to be an Omega too, it wouldn't be."

His gaze slipped to hers and the vulnerability there threw him for a moment. There was a crease between her brows, a watery glaze in her not-quite-frightened eyes and he heard her heart skip a beat before she looked down at her hand. Peter covered it with his own, thumbing the smooth skin of her knuckles.

"I need a pack," He murmured, stung by how her face crumbled at his words. He raised a hand, slipping it through the dark strands of her hair and sighed when a few silent tears rolled down her cheeks, "I need Derek."

Marcy swallowed and climbed over him, out of the bed. Without looking back, she closed the door tight behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

When Peter slipped out of the bedroom, the sun had long since set and the apartment was dark. The woman on the couch was sound asleep with only the tear tracks on her cheeks as a sign of her earlier distress. He frowned at them, troubled by how upset she had been- how upset he had made her. He thumbed a strand of her dark hair away from her brow. Despite the slight chill in the air, her pale skin was moist with sweat.

Puzzled, he stepped back from her. Peter tilted his head as he swept his gaze over her limp form. The white t-shirt she slept in clung to her shapely curves, her sex covered only by a humble scrap of sheer satin. Any salacious thoughts he may have had were chased away by the perspiration that seeped through the thin cotton material that covered her chest. She shivered and his frown deepened as he listened to the slow, unsteady beat of her heart. Admittedly, the first thing that sprang to mind wasn't Wolfsbane. No, Peter's mind went to a much darker place.

Perhaps _he_ was the cause of her ailment. Perhaps there had been some kind of unintended side effect to people who were in close contact with the recently resurrected. His hands clenched into fists. She had shown him a kindness by allowing him into her home, by taking care of him and he repaid her compassion with grief and disease. Just as he always had.

"_Take it back!"_ The woman had pleaded to him, only hours after he had given her the bite.

Marcy had been fierce, all jabbing fingers and demanding tones, but her eyes had been frightened. Her cheeks had been flushed and her heart had stuttered when her voice didn't. At the first sign of her disobedience, he had disciplined her like an untrained pup. Peter could still remember her sneer, the way she had spat at him about his burns; the same burns she would caress as a lover only weeks later on her kitchen floor after he tortured her. That's exactly what it had been; torture. Tying her down, nailing her hands to her knees with iron spikes and leaving her utterly defenseless had been a test, but not for her. Peter knew she'd be loyal to him the moment she reached for him after he had shown her the fire.

No, looking back it was obvious it had been a test for him; they had only known each other a short while, but they had bonded quickly. Too quickly, in the former Alpha's mind. He had done it to prove he could. That he could put her down if needed. Maybe he could have if she hadn't been so damn earnest with him. If she hadn't been so quick to smile up at him from her knees with genuine want and not a hint of fear or any of her former malice. If she hadn't accepted him when he was just a burned husk of the man he'd once been.

_A broken old man_, Marcy had spat with tears in her eyes. His heart clenched as he recalled her words. _A listless damaged man who's only good for tearing things to pieces_.

A quiet whine broke his thoughts and without thinking, Peter reached out and ran his hand down her side. His hand rested on the curve of her hip, between the thin cotton hem of her shirt and the low waistband of her underwear. Marcy's skin was damp; clammy in a way that put the man on edge. She couldn't be getting sick. Werewolves didn't get sick. He bent down, taking in the aberrant scent that lingered in her blood. It seemed stronger than it had been when they were in bed together. Eyes screwed tightly shut, he inhaled again, trying to place the familiar smell plaguing her veins. A soft sigh left her lips as he thumbed at her hipbone. Marcy shifted, her body instinctually pressing closer to his comforting touch.

He opened his eyes, letting them flicker over her too-pale cheeks and sweat matted hair. Very lightly, Peter nosed at her jaw. His gaze never left her face, careful not to wake her. He had missed scenting her. Had missed _her_ scenting _him_, although she probably didn't understand the significance of it. When he had been with Lydia, all of his senses had been painfully muted. There was no sense of touch unless it was with the redheaded teen and even then there had been no warmth. It had been like touching stone; Peter had been able to feel the weight of her as she pressed against him or took his hand, but there had been no pulse under her skin. She had no scent to her in her own mind and his perception had been completely relied on hers. He was only able to see, hear and feel what she did until they had stepped in to the lab. True, he had been able to sense Lydia's fear, could feel it even, but seeing Marcy had been like taking his first breath back into being tangible.

A small smile played on his lips, but it fell when he realized the young woman was still shivering. He stood, silent and graceful, and went back to the bedroom. With the comforter in his arms, he returned. Marcy didn't stir as Peter draped the thick blanket over her, nor when he tucked it into the couch behind her.

The man watched her features carefully a moment before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple. With only a forlorn glance back at her, he slipped out of her apartment and into the darkness.

When Marcy woke to find the apartment empty, her breath caught in her throat. Her gaze flickered around the room, desperate for some trace of him, but there was nothing to indicate that Peter had ever been there. There was no heartbeat to be heard and only the faintest hint of his smell. Raking her nails over her face, the woman bit back a sob. Not because he was gone, no, because she feared he had never been there at all. That she had deluded herself into thinking he came back, that the impossible had happened and she had accepted it at first glance because she had wanted it so fucking badly. She had let her grief personify itself into the one thing she had wanted most and now he was gone. Just a figment in the imagination of a desperate, foolish girl.

Marcy squared her shoulders. _No_. Fanged teeth clamped down on her lower lip as it betrayed her with a quiver. She was not going to fall back into a sobbing mess just because of this…mental relapse. After a few deep, steadying breathes, the woman forced herself to stand. Her legs were barely strong enough to hold her. Ignoring this, she wrapped the comforter over her shoulders. The apartment seemed a touch drafty, but the cold ache in her bones had little to do with the weather or the Wolfsbane dosage she had taken before bed. The resurgence of it made her stomach twist. First came the cold ache, then the hollow feeling, then the numbness; all symptoms that she had fought tooth and nail against for three months. All the symptoms that Peter had managed to push away with his return.

"But he didn't," Marcy muttered to herself, claws raking over her face. The cuts healed themselves quickly and seamlessly, gone before she even lowered her hand. She didn't notice. Too busy chastising herself, she didn't hear the door open either. "He was never here. He's dead and he's not coming back so just snap the fuck out of it, you stupid little girl."

"I go out for an hour and you fall apart?"

The woman stiffened at his playful tone. He heard her heart begin to hammer in her chest, but didn't comment on it. "Not a good sign for your state of mental health, Marcella."

Marcy kept her back to him. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and squeezed her eyes shut as he approached her. "You're not real."

His hands found her hips and he eased her back to his chest gently. He pulled her long, dark hair away from her neck with one finger. Stroking the pale skin of the smooth column with his thumb, he replied quietly, "Yes I am."

"_No_, you're _not_." Marcy spat at him. She went to pull away, but Peter held firm, his grip tightening almost to the point of pain. It was nowhere near his normal strength, but she felt rooted to the spot regardless.

"Look at me." Peter let his claws prick her skin. She needed to know he was solid, that he was there and he hoped the sting of them would be enough to make her realize that.

Her chest felt constricted, like someone had tied a tourniquet around her lungs and her breathing became shallow as the man pressed his cheek against hers. His coarse stubble was rough against her skin, familiar and unsettlingly real. Tears slipped from her eyes at the feel of it. Peter turned her easily, wincing at her shuddered sobs as he pulled her to his chest. Marcy wrapped her arms around his waist without a word. The comforter fell to the floor in a heap at their bare feet.

The man rested his head against the top of her own, stroking her hair with a sigh. With his other hand, Peter kept her close, his claws cutting into the thin fabric of her t-shirt as he fisted the material. Her own dug into his back, desperate and terrified, both of his departure and his return.

"I can't do this." The woman shook her head as she tried to slow the tears that wet his shirt. "I- I just managed to get back- just managed to get out of bed without falling _a_-fucking-_part_."

His blue eyes slid closed, but she didn't stop. She couldn't. The floodgates had opened and he was going to hear what she had to say whether he wanted to or not. Whether _she_ wanted him to or not.

"It's not fair. You had no right to do any of this to me." Marcy's nails, blunt and human, reached up behind him, digging into his shoulder as she pressed her petite form closer to his. "My life would've been so much better if you had never bit me."

Peter felt his breath hitch before he could stop it. Her words stung. He wasn't an emotional man, but to hear it from the only person he had shared a true connection with since the fire, the woman who had brought him back to life after the coma with crass devotion and the simple pleasure of touch, it fucking _hurt_.

"I didn't want any of this- I didn't want to kill people and I didn't want to love you and goddamn it, Peter, I never wanted to lose you," Marcy swallowed and chanced looking up at him. When she saw his pained expression, she frowned. The grimace sent a pang through her heart. Unwinding her arm from around his waist, she huffed. With a careful, shaky hand, she cupped his cheek, her thumb drifting over his goatee as she admitted, "I wouldn't change it though."

His eyes peeked open at that, but he didn't look at her. Just stared behind her until she gently tilted his chin down. Earnestly, she pressed a kiss to his lips. The man sighed against her mouth, the touch very light and very cautious and only lasting a second before Marcy leaned back.

"I wouldn't give up knowing you for normality, Peter." She choked down a breath, "I just- I can't… I just can't…"

"Trust me," He finished evenly. Smoothing her dark brown curls from her delicate features, Peter pressed a kiss to her brow. "I understand."

"I want to." Marcy said, and he believed that. She may have been a skilled liar, but Peter doubted she would lie about something so intimate, much less something she could barely admit to herself without coming apart at the seams. "It's just too soon. I think I just need some time. To adjust to all this."

_To adjust to me_, the man thought, but he kept quiet. Just nodded, and offered a weak smirk as she took his hand from her hair and placed a kiss, firm despite the softness of her lips, to palm. He relaxed the hand that held her t-shirt. Thumbing over the material, he scented her absently before he pulled away.

Marcy didn't let him. Her claws caught in the skin of his wrist, the ones of her right hand cutting into his shoulder as she pulled him back until his chest was firm against hers. In a voice that was little more than a whisper, she asked, "Just…just a little longer, okay?"

Peter nodded. A smile tugged at his lips as she leaned up to scent his jaw with her temple. The embrace lasted just a few moments longer, before the woman stepped back. Her gaze swept over his face, her hand coming up to rest on his chin once more as she smirked.

He arched a brow at her. "What?"

"I didn't know the dead had shaving tools in the Great Beyond." The woman told him, enjoying the prickle of the coarse hair against her fingertips.

He scoffed at her. "I told you- I wasn't dead."

"So, what? You can just will your facial hair into submission?"

"You don't like it?" Peter scratched his goatee, fingers caressing her own in a way that wasn't quite incidental. "I thought it was kind of cool."

She rolled her eyes at him, but a smile, the first genuine one he had seen since he came back, crossed her lips. "You think you're so damn pretty, don't you, Pete?"

"I'll have you know I am quite the catch."

"I bet." Marcy snickered, wiping her eyes before she ran her hand through her hair in an effort to tame it. "You know how women get around zombies. I bet you have to beat them off with a stick."

"I managed to snag you, didn't I?"

Her smile seemed to sweeten. "Yeah, you did."


	7. Chapter 7

"Jesus Christ, how many of these fuckers are there?" Marcy groaned as she rubbed her temples.

The story Peter presented wasn't the easiest to believe, but then again she was a goddamn werewolf, so she gave him the benefit of the doubt. That didn't mean she had to fucking like it though. She slumped forward on the table and covered her head with the blanket Peter had wrapped around her earlier that night.

The man across from her smirked at the childish gesture. "The Argents are certainly a…tenacious bunch."

"And you think this…" Marcy's voice was slightly muffled beneath the comforter, but he didn't pay that any mind as he slipped from his seat. "_Thing_, this lizard _thing_ that's been killing people, is being controlled by one?"

"His name is Jackson." Peter ran his hands over her covered shoulders, leaning down to pull the blanket away from her face. Greeted with a pout, he rested his chin on her shoulder and carried on absently, "He is now. I can only assume the boy Gerard was so mercilessly drowning was the Kanima's former Master. Gerard was never exactly a pacifist, but I never suspected he would start hunting down humans."

His mocking attempt at empathy forced a laugh from her, which forced a pleased smirk from him. Pushing some of Marcy's dark hair back from her face, he placed a kiss on her thinly veiled shoulder. Instead of leaning into his affection, the woman leaned away. She offered him a strained smile and hugged the blanket closer to her achy form.

Ignoring the sting of her rejection, Peter carried on in a nonchalant tone as he stepped back, "But then the Argents aren't exactly known for their benevolent nature."

Her gaze followed him, enjoying the familiar scent in the air and the line of his body as he leaned against the counter. He braced it behind him, shoulders down and relaxed in a way she wasn't used to seeing. In fact, his whole persona had changed somewhat; not much to be unsettling or worrying, but he no longer had the laser like focus he used to. Peter was still freakishly observant, vigilant in his disinterested way, but he seemed not to be driven by mal intent this time around. His revenge had been had. Kate Argent was dead and he had accomplished all he had set out to do when he had stolen the Alpha status from Laura. That concerned Marcy. Mostly because she doubted Peter could ever be content to live as a normal man, to blend back into society as an everyday citizen. He was a naturally manipulative man, a predator in his own right, and she didn't hold that against him. It would be hypocritical of her if she did. Marcy knew there was an ulterior motive for him wanting to join Derek's pack, but ultimately decided she didn't care what it was. She hadn't just been being stubborn when she had refused to join the younger man's pack. Peter would be the only Alpha she would accept, but even if he regained the elite status, Marcy didn't think she would ever fall back into such blind devotion. Not for him or anyone else.

"Am I boring you?"

The woman blinked owlishly as he tilted her chin up to look him in the face. An amused smirk tugged at his lips, but there was a hint of annoyance crinkling the corners of his eyes. It smoothed the longer he stared. His gaze flicked down to her full mouth and lingered there. Arousal trickled into his scent; a primal, intoxicating smell that made her head a bit fuzzy and her skin hot. Peter trailed his fingers down her throat to rest at the hollow of it as he leaned down, his mouth hovering over hers.

Flushing faintly, Marcy slipped out of her chair. Wrapping the blanket tighter around her, she put a few feet of space between them. Disgusted to find her voice shaky, she asked, "So what now?"

"Well…now we go to Derek."

"You mean _you_," The woman corrected, a hint of a frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You mean _you_ go to Derek."

Peter let out an impatient sigh. "Yes, fine, now _I _go to Derek. Really, Marcella? Is it going to be like this every time I bring him up?"

"He slit your throat-"

"And I ripped his sister in half. We've both made our mistakes." He approached her again, ignoring how she stepped out of his reach. With a disarming smile, he placed a hand on her shoulder, "Don't you think he deserves a second chance?"

Her blue eyes narrowed at him. "No. I told you Peter, I won't be a part of his pack and you can't make me anymore."

Peter felt his jaw clench and he fought to keep the smile on his lips. Impatience and rage bubbled in his chest; he wanted her in his pack. Needed her even, but he knew she wouldn't be forced into it and with his lack of strength it would be unwise of him to try. "I know."

"Good. I'll help you with Jackson- no one deserves to be a psychopath's plaything, but after that I'm done."

He blinked at her, taking in her tight mouth and hard eyes and nodded, "Fine."

"Don't say _fine_ like you're not going to try and win me over later with a bunch of bullshit promises and fake warmth," Marcy smirked at him in a twisted way that made him both incredibly proud and just a touch nervous. "I get you need someone to control, honest and that's a role I'm happy to fill in both the bedroom and occasionally when you're in need of some back up, but only you."

Peter's features remained blank as she pushed his hand off her shoulder. She held it in her hands a moment, her thumbs caressing his knuckles before she let it fall.

"I'm not joining his pack, Pete." Her expression sobered somewhat, "I meant it when I said I'd die first. I don't trust him, I don't _like_ him and frankly I don't like you going anywhere near him."

"He's the only family I have left."

Marcy remembered the time he had called her family, but she didn't mention it. There was no point. She could understand his need to connect with Derek- she had seen plenty of his memories after all. Peter didn't _just_ see the man who betrayed him, he also saw the little boy learning to ride his bike and the teenager he taught free throws to. He saw his sister in the younger man's face and Marcy would never deny him that, but that didn't mean she had to like it. So she nodded, "Okay. Just…don't turn your back on him, okay?"

A smirk pulled at his mouth, "Marcella. When have you ever known me to be careless?"

"When a couple teenagers got the better of you and set you on fire."

He pointed a finger at her, mocking and stern, "Beside that one time."

"I mean it. I won't bury you again. I'll leave you out for the coyotes to eat," The woman told him. Her eyes swept over his form and she let out a hum, "I'll pick you up some clothes after class."

"I can pick out my own clothes."

"Don't worry, I won't make you dress like a _preacher_ or anything."

Peter blinked at how her voice rolled over preacher, suddenly thick with an accent he had heard before and was admittedly, a little turned on by it. Marcy knew it too, and rolled her eyes accordingly as she moved away from him. Ignoring this, he teased, "Oh, you won't will you? Why should I trust your sense of fashion? I've seen how you dress."

"You've seen how I dress for other people, you haven't seen how I dress on my own time." She told him before turning on her heel and walking away.

The man stared at the space she had once occupied. Muttering under her breath about her cryptic bullshit, he stormed after her. Marcy was already half naked, seated at her vanity as she applied her make up for the day. Her eyes were rimmed with a faint brown liner, a hint of mascara already resting on her lashes as he approached her.

Frowning, he leaned against the table top. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means I can find you something suitable to wear," The brunette told him, absently pressing some powder foundation over the dark bags under her eyes. With them blended into her skin, she plucked a tube of nude lipstick up and ran it along her lower lip, amused by his frustrated scoff. A smirk pulled at her mouth as he rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. With a false coo in her voice, she told him, "Don't worry, Pete, I won't make you dress your age or anything."

"Is that right?" He asked dryly, his hand coming up to cup her chin once more. He returned the gesture as she arched a brow at him, and idly smudged her lipstick off with his thumb. She let out an annoyed sigh, but didn't pull away. Peter kept his touch gentle as well as his voice, as he continued, "I take offense to that."

Marcy only smirked. He held her chin a few moments longer than necessary, eyes searching her features carefully. Peter let out a hum as his fingers fluttered over the various tubes of lip color. She watched and let out a scoff when he decided on a dark red. It had been the same shade he had dressed her in before, the night of the full moon when they'd wound up at the desecrated Hale house.

"This shade suits you better," The man told her, ignoring her eye roll as he carried on, "when will you be back?"

"Soon enough."

"Oh, Marcella, it's not like you to be so specific. No need to drag this out with details." Peter teased in a trenchant tone. He smoothed the lipstick over his bottom lip, voice quiet when he continued, "Try not to draw too much attention to yourself. It might not be safe."

She waited until he finished applying the layer to ask, "Safe from what?"

With a smug smirk that didn't reach his eyes, Peter replied, "Anyone who wishes us harm."

"Cryptic bastard."

Without a word, he pressed a kiss to her brow. When he pulled back, her blue eyes blinked up at him with almost innocent surprise. A more sincere smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but fell before it could blossom. A hand cupped his cheek, her thumb caressing the thin bag under his eye before she turned back to the mirror.

"I'll go with you to Derek's." When his brows rose, she continued, "But I'm not getting in the way of whatever little pissing contest you're sure to instigate. If we're going to help this kid we're going to do it right. Even if that means working with the enemy for now."

"Thank you."

"Wipe that arrogant look off your face, Hale, or I'll buy you so many mom jeans-"

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."


	8. Chapter 8

Much to Peter's surprise, Marcy seemed to actually have some form of taste underneath her façade of chaste attire. A proud smile tugged at his lips as he looked at the clothing splayed out on the bed. Most of it was simple; a small array of V-neck t-shirts and Henleys in a series of neutral colors, a couple pairs of dark jeans, two dress shirts and a lone pair of black slacks.

Stripping out of his sweats, he threw a glance her way. The petite brunette paid him no mind, already having changed from the modest pink dress she had worn to school to a pair of khakis and a baby blue cardigan that looked soft to the touch. The collar of the white dress shirt she wore underneath was smoothed around the neckline, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She could've been the paradigm of innocence had her expression not been ice cold.

"Nervous?" Peter asked as he zipped up his new jeans. They were tight, or at least a touch tighter than he usually wore, but judging by how the woman's gaze swept appreciatively over his thighs and crotch, he supposed that had been intentional.

When she finally managed to drag her eyes up to his, Marcy lifted an absent shoulder. " a little."

"Hm." He pulled the undershirt he was wearing over his head and slid one of the Oxfords on in its place.

It was of good quality and fit and Peter found a smirk pulling at his lips when the woman appeared in front of him. Without a word, she began to do it up; her slim fingers nimble and quick, pale against the black material. If it seemed a touch too intimate, it was only because of the slight shake in her hands and the fact that he found himself scenting the top of her head with an almost thoughtless affection that neither of them was used to. A smirk tugged at his lips as he brushed his temple against hers, his stubble dragging over her sensitive skin and leaving a light flush in its wake.

"Get it all out of your system now, Pete," The Omega warned, eyes filled with mirth as she smoothed over the collar of his shirt. "Because I am not gonna let you get all handsy in front of your nephew."

"Oh? Is someone growing modest in her old age?" He teased in response. Absently, he undid a few of the top buttons as Marcy rolled her eyes.

"No." With a scoff, she stepped back. Her eyes flickered over the bit of exposed flesh with interest, but the woman pushed aside the heat that rose in her stomach at the sprinkle of chest hair and freckled skin. "But there are certain lines that must be drawn in the presence of blood thirty family members, wouldn't you agree?"

The man relented with a nod, "I would."

"Glad to hear it, now, how are we getting there?" A smile wormed its way across his mouth. At the sight of it, Marcy huffed indignantly, "Goddamn it. Have I told you how much I hate running?"

"Not lately."

Ten minutes later, they were outside the abandoned Hale house. Or, rather, the formerly abandoned Hale house. Two teenagers came storming out, a boy and a girl, but neither noticed the pair on the edge of the forest. The Omegas shared an amused glance, but stayed quiet as they stalked closer.

Derek was leaning over a desk littered with papers and books. He didn't spare a second thought to hurling a fraction of broken mirror at his uncle, who caught it just as it pressed against his throat. The woman beside him arched a brow but kept silent. She glanced at the shard curiously, secretly thankful when it didn't break further. The superstitions of her childhood reared their ugly heads as Peter spoke.

"I expected a slightly warmer welcome," He admitted, holding the mirror up, "but point taken."

The younger man only glared, his expression and posture filled with a hostility Marcy had come to expect. That didn't mean she had to like it though, and she could feel her fangs pulling, straining to extend behind her casual smirk. When Derek's gaze shifted to her own, the woman twiddled her fingers at him in greeting. His glare only heated further at her mocking smile.

It was that little gesture that made her lover pipe up, apparently not liking that his nephew's attention had shifted. "Quite a situation you got yourself in to here, Derek. I'm mean, I'm out of commission for a few weeks and suddenly there's lizard people, geriatric psychopaths and you're cookin' up werewolves out of every self-esteem deprived adolescent in town."

"Like you're one to talk," Derek growled, head jerking toward the brunette. Instead of commenting further, he spat, "What do you want?"

"Well, I want to help," Peter replied, stepping forward. Marcy moved to follow, but a subtle hand on her stomach stopped her, a gesture that went unseen by the younger man. Voice filled with innocence, as he moved toward the younger man, "You're my nephew. The only relative that I had left."

The woman resisted the urge to roll her eyes at that. Always the dead family card with that one.

"You know there's still a lot that I can teach you." It was when he placed his hand on his nephew's shoulder that Marcy knew Peter had made a mistake; no matter how falsely sincere his tone was, it was clear the Alpha was not nearly as forgiving as his uncle gave him credit for.

Derek looked down at the hand. "Sure," He replied tightly, "Let's talk."

The female Omega barely blinked as her former Alpha was thrown across the room. His limp body hit the hand rail of the stairs with a harsh, "_Oomph_!" that really only made her smirk widen. She approached him with a tight smile that threatened to bloom into a grin, and absently plucked a few of the wooden splinters from his prone form. He looked up at her with a grimace.

"That could've gone better."

Marcy let out a quiet chuckle and offered her hand. Before he could grasp it, however, Derek grabbed her from behind. A low growl left his uncle's throat as the Alpha slammed her back against the wall. The drywall cracked along with her skull, but the woman paid no mind. An amused snicker left her as Derek took her by the throat.

"Did you do this? Did you put Lydia up to bringing him back?" He snarled at her, fangs dangerously close to her face as Peter sat up behind them.

"She didn't know anything," The man winced, hand going to his side as a pang of pain went through his ribs. "Put her down."

"Shut up!" Derek snapped at him, eyes a brilliant red in the slowly setting sun.

They snapped back to Marcy. The woman was completely unstressed, her own gaze cool and collected, if not a touch annoyed. There was no fear in her scent, no desperation in the grip on his wrist and that only served to enrage him more. He let go of her throat, choosing to instead use his forearm to keep her pinned. A delicate brow arched at him, but the Alpha only huffed.

"Did you know?" Derek demanded, a hint of desperation in his voice as he pressed his weight against her throat. "Is this why you wouldn't join my pack?"

"I didn't join your pack because you're an untrustworthy, inept little shit and I kind of hate you." She told him bluntly. Her blue eyes bore into his own for a long moment before the man broke their gaze.

Derek's attention whipped over to Peter accusingly. The man chuckled despite the ache in his side. "What're you looking at me for? I didn't say it."

With another huff, Marcy was dropped. She caught herself with ease, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder with an indignant huff of her own. The Alpha jerked his head toward the door. "Go."

Blue eyes rolled at him. "Yeah, ri-"

"Marcella."

She glanced at Peter questioningly and sneered when he nodded in agreement with his nephew. Tears pricked at her eyes. Of course he agreed with him. Why was she fucking surprised? Marcy threw her hands up, "Fine! See if I care when he throws you around like a fucking Frisbee!"

The men watched as she stomped out of the house, slamming the door behind her hard enough to rattle not only the frame but the foundation under their feet. Derek didn't waste any time. Peter let out a grunt as his nephew grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him with all the force he could muster against the floor.

True to her word, Marcy didn't so much as cast a glance inside the decrypt house. Not when she heard Peter let out a grunt of pain, nor when she heard his ribs snap. Not when Derek dragged him up the stairs only to throw him back down. In her opinion, he deserved everything that happened to him. Perhaps if he had he not dismissed her, she could've tried defending him. It wasn't until she caught a breathy chuckle that she tuned back into what was happening inside.

"You don't actually think I want to be the Alpha again, do you?" Peter asked with gruff amusement. "That wasn't my finest performance, considering that it ended in my death. I'm usually more- Okay, come do it! Hit me! Hit me!"

The woman cringed at the sincerity in his voice, but didn't go back inside. Just pressed herself closer to the wall and squeezed her eyes tightly shut as she listened.

"I can see that it's cathartic for you," Peter hissed at his nephew, tone back to its spiteful nature as he went on. "You're letting go of all the anger, self-loathing and hatred that comes with total and complete failure. I may be the one taking the beating Derek, but you've already been beaten."

Marcy opened her eyes, but didn't make any move to enter the house. She remembered what he had told her about Derek; how he had made Betas from unstable teenagers, how he made them go after Lydia and hunt down the Kanima… and how he lost the reins on them. The Omega felt a pang of anxiety. Taking an unsuspecting person and turning them into an animal, making them predators and using them to do his bidding... It wasn't too different from what Peter had done to her. Truth was, it was getting harder and harder to justify her hate for Derek and it was becoming clearer and clearer that it was misplaced jealousy. Her stomach knotted.

"So go ahead, hit me. If it'll make you feel better," Peter panted, his voice taking on a frustratingly light and airy tone, "After all. I did say that I wanted to help."

"You can't help me," Derek replied stiffly.

For a few moments, it was silent. The woman arched a brow and called inside, "If you two are done with your little pissing contest, can I come in now?"

"Why is she here again?" The Alpha asked.

"Moral support."

Derek scoffed as she came into view. Eyes raking over her form, he spat, "what morals?"

Marcy didn't acknowledge him. Instead, she moved over to Peter. She arched a brow at the blood that dribbled down his chin, but didn't comment on it. Instead, she plucked up the discarded shard of the mirror and handed it to him before directing her attention to his nephew. "You're the one who bit Jackson, right?"

He frowned at her, but nodded with a hint of regret in his hazel eyes.

"Any idea why the bite didn't take?" The woman asked, moving to lean against the wall across from them. The distance made her feel safe, but not any better. She held herself absently, trying to warm her bones in the cold air.

"See, prime example, right here. I'm not healing as fast." Peter broke in when all Derek could do was shrug. He looked up from the mirror and over to his nephew. "Coming back from the dead isn't easy you know. I'm not as strong as I used to be. I need a pack…an Alpha. Like you. I need you as much as you need me."

Marcy resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his sentimental ploy.

With a hint of airy frustration, his nephew asked, "Why would I want help from a total psycho?"

"Valid question," The woman piped up, "but considering that you seem to be completely and utterly alone, one would think you would take all the help you can get, Hale."

The young man sat up and turned his glare on her, but Peter was quick to draw his attention back to himself, "First off, I'm not a total psycho. By the way, you're the one who slashed my throat wide open, but hey, we're all works in progress, right? So…we need each other."

His blue eyes drifted to Marcy, who was too busy glaring at Derek to notice. "Sometimes when you need help, you turn to people you'd never expect."

"Like my murderous uncle and his Omega girlfriend?"

The woman raised a finger, "Not his girlfriend; don't call me his girlfriend."

"I'm going to ignore the indignity in your tone for now," Peter told her with a hint of a scowl, "because we have more pressing matters to deal with. But trust me; we'll be coming back to that."

"Whatever."

Derek smirked. Expression malicious and a bit pleased, he asked his uncle, "So much for loyalty, huh?"

"I'm here to help Jackson," Marcy told the younger man bluntly. "Not to join your pack and not to fluff anyone's egos."

"How? How can we help him?" The Alpha asked with a desperation the woman hadn't been expecting. She lifted a weak shoulder, her features surprisingly unguarded and helpless a moment before she looked to Peter. Derek's gaze followed.

The male Omega wasted no time getting into the boy's head. He leaned over him, a looming presence on the stairway as he spoke, "You tried to build your pack. You tried to prepare for the worse but you weren't ready. Because of it, Gerard is winning. He's taking his time, he's toying with Scott…"

Marcy frowned. He hadn't mentioned anything about his other Beta to her. Only that Gerard was going after any and all werewolves he could get his arthritic little hands on…she supposed it was her own fault for not making the assumption the McCall boy would be involved.

"He's going after your wolves," He continued, "one by one, he's relishing in his victory."

"How about you tell me something I don't know?" Derek spat at him.

Peter held up a finger, "Oh, I'm going to. And it's going to prove why you should trust me. Why you need to trust me. Because I'm going to tell you how to stop Jackson."

"What'd you mean? Kill him?"

"Actually, how to save him." His uncle replied. His gaze shifted to the woman a few yards away, who was watching them intently. "Marcella. Would you mind waiting for us at the school?"

"Seriously?" She shook her head in disbelief, but walked off without another word.

Derek glanced at his uncle. "Why'd you send her away? I thought she was trying to help?"

"She is. But some things are best left to those with a hint of romance still left in them, a bit of whimsy." Peter told him off the cuff as he shook his head, "Marcella has neither of those things."

Hazel eyes squinted at him. "So?"

"There's a myth. That you can cure a werewolf simply by calling out his Christian name."

Derek shook his head, "It's just a myth."

"Sometimes myths and legends bury into truth. Our name is a symbol of who we are, the Kanima has no identity. That's why it doesn't seek a pack."

"It seeks a Master," The younger man finished.

"And who else grows up with no pack? No identity?" Peter prompted.

"An Orphan."

"Like Jackson! And right now his identity is disappearing under a reptilian skin and you need to bring him back."

Derek's head whipped up. Angry and fierce, he snapped, "How?!"

"Through his heart!" Peter snapped, as if it had been the most obvious thing in the world. "How else?!"

His nephew let out a huff of bitter laughter. "In case you haven't noticed, Jackson, doesn't have too much of a heart begin with."

"Not true. He'd never admit it, but there is one person. One young lady with whom Jackson shared a real bond." The man inclined his head slightly, uncomfortable with how personal it felt. "One person who can reach him. Who can save him."

"Lydia." Derek breathed. He turned his gaze, skeptical and a touch suspicious to his uncle. "Like you and Marcy?"

"Let's not equate what me and Marcella share to a high school romance."

"But you think love can save him? Seriously? The power of love? This isn't an after school special," The Alpha growled, "Real life doesn't work that way."

"Anger has always been your best ally, Derek, but what you lack most is heart." Peter told him bluntly. "That's why you've always known you need Scott more than anyone. Even someone as burned and dead on the inside as me, knows better than to underestimate the simple, but undeniable power of human love."

"Is this why you sent Marcy away? You didn't want her to know the power she has over you?" Derek snapped at him, a hint of disgust in his voice.

"Of course not. I sent Marcella away because I didn't need her butting in with pointless commentary."

Derek rolled his eyes, "What now?"

"Now we gather the pack."

**A/N: First off, sorry for the hiatus- I've been surprisingly busy as of late. Second, I hate the second end of this chapter, I will make the next one better. Also, trailer is up on Youtube, if you're interested.**


	9. Chapter 9

The school was in full freak out mode when Marcy showed up. Frantic, loud, obnoxious people bustled around her. Most were teenagers, with only a few exceptions of parents and teachers who still lingered on the premises after the game. Apparently one of the players had been injured on the field and pronounced dead on the scene. She looked upon them with disgust. Honestly. People died in weird ways around this town every other goddamn day; a sports injury seemed minor in comparison to, say, death by giant lizard.

The Omega huffed, but didn't dare enter the boys' locker room. She reasoned it would be better to wait until it cleared out before approaching the two werewolves inside. Or at least until the Hales showed up. Preferably the latter, because Isaac had no doubt forgotten their last meeting and she really didn't want to have to give the _I'm gonna be good for five minutes and help you out, so quit your damn whining _speech to a couple of judgemental freaking high school students. Marcy liked to think she was better than that. Either way, she wasn't about to be the lone woman in a room full of hormonal teenage boys. Because, well, there were literally dozens of things that could go wrong with that. Many of which were illegal in the state of California, and probably went against the Geneva Convention.

She caught sight of the Hales as the room emptied, leaving only the teenage werewolves inside. Without a word to her, Derek entered. Peter shot her a playful wink and slipped inside after his Alpha. With a sigh of irritation, Marcy followed him through the locker room door. It reeked of hormones, sweat and jizz and the woman barely resisted the urge to gag as the trio stopped in front of two teenage boys. Only one was familiar to her; Isaac, the skinny boy from Derek's pack, was staring at a sneaker. She presumed the shorter Hispanic boy beside him to be Scott. From all the fanfare that seemed to surround him, she was really expecting someone a bit more…impressive. Or at least a little taller.

"We need to talk," Derek told them.

Peter stepped out from behind his nephew with a wicked smirk on his face. "All of us," He added, ushering Marcy in beside him.

"Holy shit," Scott breathed, eyes locked on the newly resurrected man. He approached with caution, clearly baffled as he demanded, "What the hell is this?"

"You know I thought the same thing when I saw you talking to Gerard at the Sheriff's station," Derek shot back.

Marcy resisted the urge to smirk at the Alpha's frustration. Or maybe it was jealousy. She honestly didn't know or care, since it wasn't the time for rude throw away comments to hurt Derek's ego, but she tucked the idea away for later. Hopefully they would make this out alive and she could either kill him herself or at the very least mock his terrible, terrible leadership skills.

"Wait, hold on, he threatened to kill my _mom!_" The teen shook his head, clearly just as bitter and frustrated as the older boy, "What was I supposed to do?!"

"I'm with Scott, on this one," Peter added, earning glares from everyone around him(even Marcy, who was still in a bad mood about her senses being assaulted by teenage hormones and the stench of sweat). "Have you seen his mom? She's _gorgeous_."

"Shut up!" Derek and Scott yelled at him in union. In true diva fashion, Peter only rolled his eyes in response.

Isaac leaned over to his friend curiously, "Who's he?"

"That's Peter, Derek's uncle," Scott explained, still glaring at the man in question. His dark brown eyes never left him as he went on, voice cold and controlled, "Little while back he tried to kill us all, then we set him on fire and Derek slashed his throat."

The man beside her raised a hand. "Hi."

"That's good to know," The curly haired whispered to himself.

Scott's eyes shifted to the petite brunette beside the murderous former Alpha. "I don't know who she is, though."

"Oh," Isaac started in a considerably more nonchalant, absent tone than Scott had been using, "That Marcy, little while back Derek tried to get her to join his pack and she threatened to rip me apart and leave me in the woods for him to find like his sister."

"Good to see you too, Isaac," She smiled warmly at the boy, twiddling her fingers at him in a sarcastic manner. "Glad to see you're not dead yet."

Peter placed a protective hand on her shoulder. "She was also my first Beta."

They shared a smirk that earned an eye roll from the Alpha in front of them. Scott dismissed all of this, instead asking how it was he was even alive, which admittedly, was a rather good question.

"That short version is he knows how to stop Jackson," Derek answered.

Marcy squinted doubtfully in his direction. That was not a short answer. That was…more of a bonus? In no way had that answered Scott's question whatsoever.

He didn't seem to notice. "And maybe how to save him."

"Well, that's very helpful, except Jackson's dead," Isaac told them. He didn't seem to particularly broken up about it, but given what little she knew of the Whittemore boy, Marcy hardly blamed him. From what Peter had told her he was a spoiled brat and an all-star douche bag- well, she was paraphrasing a bit, but oddly, not by much.

The man beside her however, stiffened dramatically. The hand on her shoulder tightened its grip subtly before slipping from her all together, pausing only to give her hand the briefest of squeezes.

"What?" Derek demanded as he looked between the two boys.

Scott shook his head with considerably more empathy than the teen beside him. "Jackson's dead, it just happened on the field."

Derek and Peter shared a concerned look as Marcy crossed her arms, cursing under her breath.

"Why is no one taking this as good news?" Isaac shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering to each adult in a nervous manner.

"Because if Jackson's dead, it didn't just happen. Gerard wanted it to happen," Peter explained, his hand moving to rest on Marcy's hip to calm her restlessness.

Derek turned to them, "But why?"

"Well, that's exactly what we need to figure out." Peter visibly resisted the urge to smirk as he stepped forward. "And something is telling me the window of opportunity is closing. Quickly."

"And how do you suppose we do that?" His nephew shot at him.

"Research," The older man replied casually.

Marcy rolled her eyes, "Well, knowledge is power, but I doubt this is the kind of thing we can just conjure up on Google, Pete."

"No," Her former Alpha rolled his eyes at her sarcasm, "but there is something at the house that can help us."

"The Hale house?" Isaac piped up. "It's abandoned, no one's been there in months."

"Exactly." Peter blinked before looking back to Derek. "We should hurry. That window won't wait on us."

"Fuck." Marcy sighed. "I hate running."

"I'll make it up to you," Peter promised with a lecherous grin. She only rolled her eyes at him. He nudged her hip with his own in a playful manner, and a small smile pulled at the corner of the woman's lips despite her annoyance.

Derek was visibly unsettled by their little interaction. "Stop that."

Without another word, they took off with the teenagers close on their heels. The March air was chilly, but not unbearably cold as they slipped through the woods. Derek entered the house first, Peter slipping in behind him before Marcy ushered the boys in. Scott eyed her warily, but she only winked in response. Isaac didn't even meet her gaze, eyes trained purposely on the back of Scott's head as her eyes shifted to him.

"Don't be so coy, sweetie. I won't _really_ rip you to pieces." She smiled, all teeth and man eating, when he looked a bit hopeful. "Not tonight, anyway. Maybe if you're a good boy, I'll look you up on your eighteenth birthday."

They were still staring at each other, Isaac in horror, Marcy with amusement, when Scott announced that they had found his little friend, Stilinski. Derek wasn't paying them any attention as Peter slipped over to the stairs.

"Look, I told you I looked everywhere."

"Didn't look here," Peter replied as he pried away one of the stairs. He pulled out a long, metallic brief case and blew some dust off it. Derek asked if it was a book and the man looked down right disgusted with his nephew's idiocy. "No. It's a laptop, what century are you living in?" He opened it and checked to make sure all the wires were still intact, "A few days after the coma I transferred everything we had. Fortunately the Argents aren't the only ones who keep records."

"You better pray to whatever god you believe in that isn't my laptop, Hale." The woman snapped at him, eyes flashing yellow in the dim light as he moved into another room. "Don't think I didn't notice it going missing around the time you got offed by a bunch of teenagers…and Derek."

"Thanks, Marcy. Always happy to be acknowledged," Derek drily replied. Surprisingly, she shot him a genuine smile before her face tightened once more. A proud smirk pulled at the younger man's lips and he crossed his arms smugly over his broad chest.

Scott's phone rang again but no one paid him any mind as they followed the former Alpha into the adjunct former living room. Isaac stuck close to Derek, Marcy stuck close to the wall and nobody said anything until Scott re-entered.

The boy looked to Derek, "My mom called- she says something's going on with Jackson, something big. I've gotta-"

"Okay," The Alpha interrupted with an understanding nod, "Go see what she needs. Isaac go with him." His eyes, flaming red, slipped to the woman leaning against the wall, "Marcy, you too."

"What? No, it'll be quicker if-"

"Scott, she's going." Derek snapped at him, "She might not be part of the pack, but she's here to help. And if she wants to help she can start by keeping the two of you safe," his gaze returned to Marcy's, hard but not suspicious, "Right?"

Instead of fighting him like he'd expected, the brunette nodded. Her pretty features hard and calm, she promised, "I'll look after them." They shifted, becoming cold once more as she began making shooing motions at the teens, "Come on, kids, let's go play with a dead body."

Peter glanced up from the computer with a frown, but she had already left. Derek eyed him skeptically, but noted that the worry seemed authentic. It wasn't an expression he was used to seeing on his uncle, and as the others disappeared from hearing distance, he told him, "They'll be fine. Marcy seems like she can take care of herself."

With a wicked glint his blue eyes, Peter agreed, "She certainly can."

Melissa McCall was, Marcy was annoyed to learn, just as beautiful as Peter had said. The had curly brown hair and bright brown eyes and a warmth that shone through despite her distress. The female werewolf nodded civilly to her, but said nothing as the woman firmly shut the door behind them. Melissa seemed a bit frazzled, and everyone understood why as she unzipped the body bag.

"Holy shit," Marcy breathed, eyes lightening up at the sight of Jackson's gelatinous torso. "I totally need a sample of that! Scott, pass me that petri dish!"

"I will not pass you a petri dish!" The boy hissed at her, tugging the college student away from the dead body that seemed to be encased in a saran wrap-esque casing of what was surely poison, bodily fluids and, knowing Jackson, possibly the physical embodiment of the human ego. "Don't touch him!"

"I have to! Do you realize what an opportunity this is?! For _science_?!" Marcy pulled out of his grasp and took the offered latex gloves from Melissa. "Thank you. You say he's been like this since he died?"

"He was dripping this stuff at the game- or at least he was when they put him in the ambulance." The nurse told her as she backed away from the exuberant younger woman.

"Well, what's happening to him?" Her son asked. He watched as Marcy plucked up the petri dish and a tongue depressor and crouched down to take some samples of the clear goo off the floor. "And what are you doing?!"

"Well, it might be contaminated, but I want to compare the liquid to the solid- _quit looking at me like that_, this is _science_, Stilinski."

"My last name is _McCall!_"

Marcy blinked and shrugged. "Whatever." She looked back over her shoulder to Melissa, who looked incredibly unnerved. "Any idea what's causing it?"

"I thought that you were gonna tell me?!" The older woman shot back frantically, "Is it bad?!"

"Doesn't look good," Isaac agreed, leaning over the body of his dead teammate to inspect him a bit more closely.

The three of them jumped back as Jackson shifted. From her vantage point, Marcy didn't notice. When she stood, she took in their horrified features and frowned, "What?"

"Mom, mom could you-" Scott cleared his throat as the strange woman absently scrapped off a bit of the clear casing from Jackson. "Mom, could you zip it up please?"

Melissa scoffed at her son and Marcy smirked, "Our heroes, right?"

They shared strained smiles before the mother moved to zip up the body bag with an anxious, "_okay_." She managed to get it up to the boy's chin before the zipper got stuck.

When Jackson's head lurched forward toward the nurse's hand, Marcy let out a shriek as her hand instinctively came down to the boy's forehead, slapping it back to the gurney hard enough to let out a echoing _bang_. The dead boy's mouth continued to gash at the air with dark, sickly needle-like teeth, but Marcy kept his head firmly in place. With less than helpful commentary running from Scott, Melissa managed to get the boy's face covered and the collective let out sighs of relief.

"Well. I think it's safe to say that we can all expect to be seeing each other in the post-traumatic stress disorder therapy circle," Marcy joked, her features surprisingly pale as she screwed the lid onto the petri dish. Vaguely she thought that they desperately needed to invent thicker latex gloves than wondered whether or not there was a possibility that the boy could be secreting acid through his skin. "And let us never speak of this again. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Isaac and Melissa chorused. Beside them, Scott was calling Derek. Marcy slipped the petri dish into her back pocket and pulled off the gloves. Tossing them into the contaminants box, she listened in on the conversation.

"You've got to bring him to us."

"Is he kidding?" The petite brunette asked, "We don't have time for that!"

Scott quickly parroted that over the line. The four of them shifted closer to the wall and further away from Jackson, who was now writhing in his body bag. A high pitched screech echoed over the phone and the Hales decided to meet them half way with Derek ordering, "Get him out of there now!"

"Great!" Marcy clapped her hands with mock enthusiasm, "Anyone know how to drive?"


	10. Chapter 10

Melissa led the werewolves to a back door and wished them luck. Marcy took the lead and the boys took the body. Their footsteps quick and silent on the pavement, they moved toward the brightly lit parking lot. They almost managed to make it when Scott dropped the goddamn body.

"Are you freaking kidding me?!" Marcy hissed at him, torn between amusement and genuine woe as an SUV pulled up behind her.

The werewolves winced as the bright high beams hit their sensitive eyes. A scruffy, but attractive, man of perhaps forty stepped out of it, coming to stand in front of them in a manner that put the woman on edge. She stepped in front of the boys, her fangs bared and claws extended, as she spread her arms out to form a barrier between the stranger and the teens. When Scott moved forward, she stopped him with a firm hand on his chest. Reluctantly, he stayed where he was and piped up from behind the woman.

"You're alone?" Scott asked him, seeming surprised. Whether it was by Marcy's reaction or the Argent's sudden arrival, the man was unsure.

A flicker of sadness passed over the hunter's face, "More than you know."

With a hint of wary sympathy, Scott asked him what he wanted.

"We don't have much in common, Scott," The man took a deep breath, clearly annoyed, "but at the moment we have a common enemy."

"That's why I'm trying to get him out of here," the dark eyed boy explained, his gaze flicking to the body bag before returning to the hunter's.

Chris shook his head, "I didn't mean Jackson."

Marcy eyed him suspiciously. She recognized him as an Argent, Kate's older brother and Gerard's only son. That didn't exactly instill a lot of trust in him. With a raised brow, she asked, "You'd go against your own father?"

His blue eyes landed on her yellow, "If it meant saving my daughter." When they returned to a more natural blue, his attention returned to Scott, "He has twisted his way into Allison's head. The same way he did with Kate. I'm losing her. And I know you're losing her too."

"I know," Scott agreed sadly. He let out a huff, "So can you trust me to fix this? Can you let us go?"

"No." Chris replied, earning a snarl from the woman in front of him. Ignoring her, he said, "My car is faster."

Marcy huffed at him, "Fucking dramatic asshole." When Scott went to move, she caught the boy by the arm, "Can we trust him?"

"I think so."

"Don't _think_. Thinking is not your strong suit, McCall." Her claws gripped his shoulders, cutting through the thin fabric of his shirt and into the flesh underneath, "Do you feel like he could be a danger to us? Does it feel safe? What is your little werewolf spidey sense saying?"

The boy nodded, confident but slowly. "We can trust him."

"Good enough for me." The woman clapped him on the shoulders and followed the man into the car. She slid into the passenger seat and frowned at him. When Chris met her gaze, she told him, "If anything happens to those boys because of you, I'm going to rip your daughter's lungs out."

Chris sneered at her, "They'll be fine. I hope."

Marcy nodded and looked into the back, where Isaac and Scott had stuffed Jackson into the very back. The drive to the abandoned subway station was thankfully both silent and quick.

"I think he stopped moving…"

"Where's Derek?"

As if on cue, the Alpha came running out. On his hands. Marcy squinted at him. "What the fuck is he doing?"

"Running," Isaac replied, "_Duh_."

"He looks ridiculous."  
Not able to bear watching any longer, Marcy slipped into the building. Familiar hands grabbed her from behind, pulling her into the darkness. They spun her quickly, pinning her back to the cold concrete as he flashed sharp, impossibly white teeth at her in the dim light.

"Peter."

"Marcella," He taunted, still grinning as his hands ran along her sides and hips.

The woman huffed at him and pulled out of his grasp, only for Peter to pull her back into his arms. He dropped his chin to her shoulder, completely aware that she could overpower him with ease. She was simply letting him manhandle her. His arms snaked around her waist, holding her smaller form flush to his chest.

Setting his teeth on the back on her neck, he murmured around pale skin, "I take it all went well with Jackson?"

"As well as can be when pilfering a corpse." Her hands blanketed his own and she pulled them from her sides. With a bit more distance between them, Marcy was able to think more clearly. With a raised, judgemental finger, she smirked at him. "Also, you need to have a little chat with your nephew because that whole jungle cat thing he's got going is fucking _embarrassing_."

Peter rolled his eyes and nodded his agreement. "It seems he enjoys making an entrance."

"Does he know there is a difference between a good first impression and a bad one?"

"Evidently not." He pursed his lips as she stepped around him. Catching her belt loop with a claw finger, he asked her where she was going.

Marcy placed a quick peck to his cheek, untangling herself from him as she replied, "To see if I can help with Jackson. Wait here."

"Why do I have to-" His sentence trailed off into a moan. Peter's eyes fluttered closed as his former Beta kissed him. Her lips were purposeful and rough, her hands knotted in the front of his shirt to hold him still before she pulled back to scent him.

Mouth caressing his jaw, she muttered, "Because I want you at full strength by tonight…and I'll be quite disappointed if I have to put off my plans because of some sort of maiming on your part."

With a wicked grin, he cupped her face in his hands. She moved easily when pulled to him, enjoying the faint touch of him against her lips as he pressed his forehead against her own. Lifting an apathetic shoulder, Peter heaved a dramatic sigh, "I suppose I really should wait until I'm back to full strength before starting a fight with a homicidal maniac. Geriatric or otherwise."

"I agree." Marcy nudged her nose against his and without another word returned to the group that were encircled around Jackson's body.

Scott glanced up at her, then behind her, then sniffed the air. With a frown, he asked, "Where are they?"

"Who?" Derek spoke for her, something she appreciated because she had absolutely no idea what the little teen wolf was talking about.

"Peter and Lydia," Scott replied, his tone implying that it had been obvious.

Without a word, the Alpha bent down and unzipped the body bag. Marcy moved closer, but he raised a hand, nails replaced with sharp claws to stop her. A growl rose in her throat, but she stayed put as Scott shook his head.

"What? What're you doing? You said you could save him!"

Derek shook his head, purposely avoiding the boy's gaze. "We're past that."

"What? What about-"

"Think about it, Scott!" Derek snapped at the younger boy. Marcy shifted beside Isaac, but made no move to intervene as the Hale went on, tone surprisingly cold, "Gerard controls him now. He's turned Jackson into his own personal guard dog and he set all of this in motion so that Jackson could get even bigger and more powerful."

"No," a soft voice countered. The werewolves' attentions whipped over to Chris. The hunter's expression was mute and his fists clenched at his side, but his gaze was vulnerable as he looked between them. More firmly he repeated, "No. He wouldn't do that. If Jackson's a dog he's turning rabid- and my father wouldn't let a rabid dog live."

"Of course not!"

Marcy stiffened at the voice. It was unfamiliar and edged with a cocky tone that put her on edge. A quick glance to her left confirmed her suspicions, as there stood Gerard Argent. Hardly an imposing man in the physical sense, but his sneer and his posture made her fangs extend and spine tighten.

He didn't seem to notice her tense stance, nor the other werewolves', as he continued, "Anything that out of control is better off dead."

Derek moved quickly, but not fast enough. The Alpha found himself impaled on the very claws he had set out to save and was once again tossed back like an unwanted toy. His body clattered against the wooden crates, but no one moved to help him. Marcy grabbed hold of the blonde boy beside her and pushed him back. Isaac went without comment, clearly too enticed by Gerard's little villain speech to notice. The woman was having none of it; if the old man wanted to lament she would let him, but by god she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of an audience. Baring her teeth, the Omega growled as an arrow shot out of thin air, nailing the curly haired Beta in the chest.

"Allison?!" Scott breathed, looking around the abandoned warehouse but not seeing her.

"Now is not the time for your teenage romance, McCall!" Marcy grabbed Isaac shoulder and ripped the arrow from it. When the boy let out a howl of pain, she promptly shushed him, "Or _whining_! Rip his throat out or get your ass in gear!"

The latter had been directed at Scott, who thankfully chose to help her carry his friend through the plastic curtains instead of try and talk out his feelings with his supposedly brainwashed, psychotic, and not to mention bloodthirsty, girlfriend. Shots fired behind them, shattering their sensitive hearing and earning a wince from the boy being hauled around like so many sacks of potatoes before him.

"Prop him up!"

Scott did as he was told, setting Isaac against a cement pillar with care. He watched as Marcy's eyes flashed, a startling yellow in the dim light. Isaac let out a feral roar as she peeled back his skin; blood gushed from the open wound the arrow had left behind and Scott moved to pull her away. "What're you doing?!"

"I left the arrow head in!" The woman snapped at him. Her gaze softened slightly at Isaac, who was too busy trying to pant through his pain to notice. "This is gonna hurt- but it'll heal faster. Ready?"

"N-_ah_, _damn it!"_ He screamed as she tore his the thick muscle of his shoulder.

Her razor-like claws rooted around a moment before she yanked out a deceptively small hunk of metal; she tossed it over her shoulder with a pleased smirk. Triumphantly, Marcy told him, "See? No sweat. Right as rain, right?"

"I hate you," Isaac hissed at her, but his wound _was_ starting to heal. He could feel it.

The three werewolves turned, fangs and claws extending, fur growing from their jaws. Their eyes glowed the same luminous yellow as the Alpha reappeared with Jackson close behind. Scott was the first to make a move, leaping on the reptilian creature from behind only to be thrown back with nary a flick of the Kanima's wrist. Marcy stayed back, watching carefully. He seemed to favor defensive positions, keeping his center of gravity low, his tail was agile and apparently quite strong. As Isaac went sailing overhead, she approached with caution.

Jackson snapped his teeth at her, his fangs quite different from his human ones. Her gaze flickered to them, the needle-like maw making her stomach turn as they circled each other. The larger creature took a swipe at her, venomous claws catching the thin material of her sweater and ripping it. A low growl left Marcy as she pounced. Dropping down to her knees, she began to tear into the scaled flesh of his upper thighs. The boy flipped her easily, but her claws stayed embedded in his legs; her fangs quickly following as he raked his own sharp nails over her stomach and abdomen. Blood spurted from the wounds, flowing over her sides as her back arched at a cramped, unforgiving angle.

A scream tore from Marcy's throat. Her teeth were knocked from the creatures leg as his fist came crashing down on her chest with venom dripping from his claws. Her head smacked against the concrete floor and everything after that was a blur. She remembered being impaled on the wooden crates; the thick splintered wood cutting through her side and back. She remembered the faint taste of her own blood, laced lightly with Wolfsbane and Kanima venom coating her tongue. She could hear everything around her; Gerard's plan to kill Derek, Scott's plan to manipulate Gerard, but was unable to move. In truth, she was barely able to breathe through the pain in her back and the distress of her fading vision. Her muscles twitched and convulsed of their own accord, but she found herself unable to move even as that idiot Stilinski plowed his ugly jeep through the wall.

"Jackson!" A familiar, feminine voice called. It was more frantic than she had heard before, but the Omega recognized it instantly and let out a sigh of relief; Lydia Martin. Jackson's supposed saving grace.

Her vision continued to blur, but thankfully Marcy managed to remain conscious. She was quite proud of herself. At least until the action was over and she found that she was still unable to do more than twitch her fingers. With a huff of frustration, the woman willed her knees to bend, her shoulders to roll- _anything_, but her limbs remained completely stationary except for the slight tremble in her digits.

"Well, well, well," Peter cooed at her, a sly grin on his features as he stepped into view.

Marcy glared at him, but found she was unable to speak just yet.

The man tutted at the indignant look on her face. "It looks like someone got a little hot headed, now, didn't she?"

Marcy glared harder.

Peter chuckled and bent down to scoop her up. Without his usual strength, carrying her outright was hardly the easiest thing to do. Derek approached from behind and moved to help, a simple soundless gesture. His uncle eyed his outstretched arms dubiously. When Marcy let out a near silent mew in his arms, Peter sent her a curious glance. Her gaze was pleading, almost frightened as she weakly shook her head, fingers desperately trying to catch the material of his shirt.

"I got her," Peter told the younger man. He pulled Marcy closer to his chest and gathered his strength. Lifting her made his muscles ache and strain, but he kept his complaints to himself as her head lolled on his shoulder.

Derek watched with tight features. "Come on. I'll give you two a lift back to her apartment. We'll meet up at the house in a few hours."

With only a nod, Peter followed him out of the warehouse.

**A/N**: Beta'd by the lovely MidnightMoonWarrior. Awesome chick. Check her out. This story might be going on hiatus as I try to finish my Hands on The Bible fic, but I haven't decided. It is definitely NOT being discontinued, I love it far too much for that, so no worries.


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